


an exercise in self-restraint

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22933117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "Mr. Robot, who’s just trying to get through these three days as smoothly as he can, keep the peace and keep control and keep everything in balance as best he can, realizes he canusethis.That’s all it is: taking advantage of an opportunity that has presented itself, gift-wrapped and tied with a bow and everything."Those missing three days after the 5/9 hack and everything that followed.
Relationships: Mr. Robot/Tyrell Wellick
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many, many thanks to [prettymissodd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettymissodd), without whom this fic would have never happened, and to [Theyfightcrime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyfightcrime), for all the research help and encouragement. 
> 
> Title is from "Curse Me Good" by The Heavy.

The last thing Mr. Robot expected out of tonight was to want Tyrell Wellick back.

“By the way, the name’s Irving,” the man in front of him says. “Now, get to that parking job.”

And the door slams shut behind them—all of them, the Dark Army, Irving, and the one Swedish idiot at the heart of it all—and Mr. Robot is left standing alone, car keys held loosely in his hand.

He blinks, surprised he’s managed to maintain control this long. Elliot’s buried somewhere deep, and he can’t feel any sense of him, any stirring in the back of his mind.

But Robot knows—knows like he knows what he _really_ looks like, knows that he’s not just a carbon copy of Elliot, knows what color the sky is and which code works for which situation—that soon enough Elliot will wake up. And then Robot will have to deal with the fallout, as always, and for once, he wants to be selfish. To keep control for a little while longer.

And oddly enough, the only times he’s felt _in control_ up until now were whenever that Swedish dumbass was around. Robot doesn’t know how to begin parsing _that_ out, but Tyrell had started to become… a touchstone, almost. A grounding influence, as crazy as he is, and Robot can use that now.

Without control, Elliot will only wake up and lose his shit, and Robot _cannot_ have that. He’s supposed to protect Elliot from all this, and, well, if that means keeping Tyrell around, then so be it.

Not to mention that he’d already made the deal with Tyrell: he’d protect Robot from himself. No matter the cost.

And that loyalty is not something Robot can just throw away lightly.

But Tyrell is being loaded into a car going who-knows-where, and here Mr. Robot is, standing around and thinking too much and doing nothing about it.

“Ah, fuck it,” Robot says, and he storms out of the arcade to Tyrell’s car.

Lucky for him, the Dark Army have just started to move. They only sent the three goons—the two gunmen and Irving, who gives him the creeps—and the one car, so there are still miracles in this world.

He watches their car pull away, and he starts Tyrell’s van, driving off after them.

It’s a stupid move—probably one of his dumbest to date, and impulsive to no end. But his only chance of maintaining what little control he has is in that car, and he isn’t letting go of that so easily.

Robot follows them for what feels like hours until they take a detour down some dirt road. At this point, it’s obvious to everyone and their mother that Robot is following them, but he couldn’t give less of a shit about it.

He’ll find a way out of it and keep Elliot safe. He always does.

They eventually arrive at a barn in the middle of nowhere. _Really_ middle of nowhere. Nothing but trees as far as the eye can see, and any noise from distant highways is completely drowned out by the sheer silence around them.

Robot watches Tyrell get out of the car and follow the gunmen inside. He turns to get out of his own car and hesitates, just for a second.

Of course, that’s when Irving appears like a ghost, knocking gently on the driver’s side window. It’s kind of comical: the SUV is pretty far off the ground and Irving isn’t _that_ tall.

But Robot plays into it and rolls down the window.

“Can I help you?” he asks, and _what the fuck?_ Is he _trying_ to get Elliot killed?

“I seem to remember telling you to park this car, eh, somewhere else,” Irving says, all casual. “Most definitely not here.”

“That you did,” Robot says. “As a matter of fact, I’m on my way there now.”

“Is that right?” Irving smiles, and there are enough edges in it to cut yourself on.

Mr. Robot shrugs. “Never gave me a time limit. And besides which, I have an offer to make.”

Irving squints. “You’re not really in a place to be making offers.”

“Let me see him,” Robot says, ignoring Irving and hoping this stupid, ballsy move will get him somewhere.

“That doesn’t sound like an offer. More like a demand.”

Mr. Robot levels Irving a look. One he hopes says _fuck you_. “You chucklefucks might have stormed our operation with more information than God, but you don’t know Tyrell Wellick. The man’s a ticking time bomb.”

“And?” Irving turns, looks like he’s about to walk away. _Shit_.

“I’m the only one that can keep him sane.”

That earns him a look. One of interest, if he’s reading this guy right. “The only one?”

“He’s got some kind of… god complex,” Robot explains, trying to be truthful for once. “Thinks we’re fated to work together or some shit. If I’m not there to reassure him, to keep him sedate, he’s gonna blow up and bring this whole thing down.”

Irving frowns. “We have our own methods for dealing with… those kinds of folks.”

“And I’m offering you an easy solution,” Mr. Robot says. “Let me talk to him. Calm him down, keep him happy for a while. And we’ll do whatever the fuck you want.”

Irving nods, slowly. Thinking.

“I’ll even bring back the car for you, no problem.” And Mr. Robot throws in what he considers his most winning grin for effect.

“Three days,” Irving says.

“What?”

“I’m giving you far more than I should,” Irving scoffs. “But I’ll give it to you. Three days.”

Mr. Robot lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Three days.”

“Do whatever you need to get him on board and keep him, as you called it, ‘sedate,’” Irving continues. “We’ll stay out of your hair as long as you get the hell out of here when we come calling. Deal?”

_What the fuck am I doing_.

“Deal,” Robot says.

“Now, outta the car and inside,” Irving says, stepping back from the door. “We’ll drop this off and collect you when your time is up.”

Mr. Robot rolls up the window, gets out, and follows Irving inside. He’s not sure what he’s expecting—Tyrell to be tied up, or at the very least _beaten_ up.

He’s a little surprised to see Tyrell just fine, still in his suit and pacing in front of the gunmen like they’re not even there. He immediately turns to look when Irving strolls in—and stops dead when he spots Robot.

“Elliot,” he whispers, and damn, Robot has gotta get him to stop calling him that. It’s not… quite right, like when they misspell your name on a bullshit form or a Starbucks coffee cup and you wonder, _Is that really who people think I am?_

“Missed me?” Robot says, holding out his arms in a shrug. He was definitely _not_ holding them out as an invitation, but Tyrell takes it that way anyway because pretty soon he’s got an armful of Swede.

This isn’t the first time this has happened tonight—and what a weird fuckin’ night it’s been—but Robot still doesn’t know what to do. He’s not used to… these outward displays of affection. Giving _or_ receiving it.

So he tries… holding Tyrell back. Curling his arms around him and just breathing him in, the too-expensive cologne and the fresh-pressed shirt and what almost smells like salt from the sea, underneath it all.

Irving breaks the silence with a clap. “Alright, lovebirds. Enjoy your stay in our 37-acre luxury resort, featuring ground sensors and a whole load of fences.”

Robot and Tyrell break up long enough to see the Dark Army trio march out of the house, closing the door behind them. They stay standing there, listening to the cars start and pull away, and then there’s nothing. Just the two of them in what looks to be a shoddy house in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

Mr. Robot can feel Tyrell’s eyes on him. “What did you do?”

He shrugs. “I made a deal. We get three days here. No supervision from the Dark Army.”

Tyrell frowns. “How?”

“I have my ways.” Robot turns, takes in the cabin around them. “This place, huh? What a dump.”

Tyrell is still staring. “What are you planning? You told me about Stage Two, but this is… this was never part of it.”

Robot shrugs. “Things come up. Obstacles. We deal with ‘em and move on.”

“Deal with them? This—” Tyrell cuts himself off, a hysterical laugh crawling up his throat. “We’re stranded in the middle of nowhere, kept under the Dark Army’s thumb, and you want to _move on?_ ”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do?” Robot yells, whirling around. He forgot just how easily the Swede could push his buttons but _damn_ , is he remembering fast.

“I don’t know, something _useful?_ ” Tyrell yells back. “Like getting us out of here?”

“This is it, dipshit!” Robot throws his arms out. “This was my last card and I fucking played it as best I could. I’d like to see you try to talk your way out of this.”

Tyrell scoffs. “I could have at least gotten us a phone or something—”

“Are you _kidding me?_ ” Robot says. “You couldn’t argue your ass out of a paper bag, let alone try to reason with the Dark Army.”

“I didn’t see you arguing in the arcade,” Tyrell mutters.

Robot’s jaw drops. “Oh, are you—you’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

Tyrell says nothing to that. Just glares.

“I can’t believe this,” Robot says under his breath.

Tyrell keeps his arms crossed. He’s even _pouting_.

“ _You_ ,” Robot says, raising his voice, “think you can call _me_ out for not sticking up for us in the arcade? Who was it who got us noticed by the fucking _FBI?_ Not me!”

“I didn’t know about that!”

“Well, who gives a shit who knew what, since obviously all you care about is blaming _me!_ ” Robot steps closer, getting furious right in Tyrell’s stupid face.

“I’m not blaming—”

“Then what is all this?” Robot exclaims. “Tell me that, Tyrell. What the hell are we doing?”

Tyrell’s breathing fast, like he ran a hundred miles to get here, and suddenly Robot notices just how close he’s gotten. He could flick Tyrell’s nose from here.

He might, if he keeps thinking about it.

“I don’t…” Tyrell trails off, his arms dangling loose at his sides. “All I know is our plan is _ruined_ because we’re stuck here with _nothing_. And that’s your fault.”

Robot snorts. “Listen, sweetheart, it takes two to tango. We got ourselves into this mess. I just made sure we were both here for it.”

Tyrell glances at him, gaze sharp, and almost immediately looks down again. _What the hell?_

Robot sighs, shaking it off.

“Hey,” he says, trying to bring his volume down to a normal level. “Listen. We’re stuck here, yeah. That’s not great. But we have three days to come up with a plan.”

Tyrell’s looking back at him again. _Good_. “What sort of plan?”

Robot lets himself grin, wide and terrible. “A grand escape.”

“We—we can’t, the Dark Army—”

“I know, I know,” Robot says, putting up two placating hands. “But we can at least scope this place out. Get the lay of the land, get familiar with every nook and cranny of this shitty house.”

Tyrell nods. “If we can’t get out…”

Robot shrugs. “Then at least we’ll know your home base like the backs of our hands.”

“Wait,” Tyrell frowns. “You said ‘your.’ Not ‘our.’”

“…About that,” Robot starts. “ _I’m_ here for three days. I think you’ll be here a bit longer.”

Tyrell opens his mouth, closes it.

“It was the only thing—”

“You’re leaving me here?” Tyrell asks, and he’s so quiet Robot feels something in him crack, just a bit.

“Hey, no—that’s not—”

“You’re leaving me. Alone, in this place,” Tyrell mumbles. He sits down, hard, at the tiny table, staring holes into the floor.

“That guy—Irving—it was the only deal he made me,” Robot says, leaning down to Tyrell’s level. “I couldn’t exactly buy more time from him. You saw what he was like.”

Tyrell is silent. Not even fidgeting. _Fuck_.

“At least we have three days,” Robot tries. “It’s better than none, huh? And we can do our best to work, just…”

Tyrell’s looking at him now, making eye contact and _goddammit_. It’s the same look on his face from the arcade, after a gun failed to fire and he held Robot’s face in his hands and tried to say something Robot almost couldn’t stop. The same look from countless times before, in Elliot’s memory: an office, a boardroom, an elevator.

This guy, with all his suits and his high-end job and his supposed wife, has got it _bad_. For Elliot.

And Robot, who’s just trying to get through these three days as smoothly as he can, keep the peace and keep control and keep everything in balance as best he can, realizes he can _use_ this.

That’s all it is: taking advantage of an opportunity that has presented itself, gift-wrapped and tied with a bow and everything.

That’s it.

So it doesn’t take much for Mr. Robot to brace himself, grab Tyrell Wellick’s collar, and kiss him as hard as he can.

It’s fast—over before anyone can say “boo.” Robot still has his hand tangled in Tyrell’s collar, and Tyrell is wide-eyed and _rumpled_ , somehow.

“I…” Tyrell whispers. “I thought… in the arcade—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Robot interrupts. “I wasn’t—I was focused on the plan. Wasn’t thinking right.”

Tyrell nods, slowly, and glances down at—oh. At Robot’s lips.

“Can—” Tyrell starts, but Robot is already leaning in again.

This time is much… slower. Robot realizes that he’s never really kissed anyone before—it’s always been Elliot in control during those moments, with Shayla and the other few girls (and guys) from years past. He kind of knows what to do, but he really, really doesn’t, because suddenly Tyrell’s hands are back on his face and everything’s spinning rapidly out of control.

Like everything Tyrell does, he kisses with purpose, taking charge as easily as breathing. He strokes Robot’s face, gentle, and then Robot is being pulled up and into Tyrell’s lap.

He stumbles, catches himself on the arms of the chair, and Tyrell is there to hold him up. They stare at each other for a moment. Tyrell’s breathing hard again, but now Robot knows why.

“That was…” Robot says, just to break the silence.

“Shut up,” Tyrell says, and Robot manages to make an indignant noise before he’s being pulled back into Tyrell’s orbit again.

It’s… nice, kissing. Robot certainly doesn’t mind the attention, and it feels… well. He has to keep reminding himself that this is Tyrell Wellick, and this is just to keep them both sane for a little while.

He forgets about that when Tyrell’s hands sneak down his chest toward his belt.

Robot pulls back immediately, panic spiking through him. “H-hey.”

Tyrell stops. “Are you okay?”

Robot tries to breathe for a second, remind himself where he is. “I… I think that’s enough for one night.”

He gets up, disentangling himself from Tyrell’s grasp, and he’s relieved when Tyrell doesn’t look angry. He just seems a little confused.

“Elliot,” Tyrell starts.

“Don’t call me that.”

Tyrell blinks. “What should I call you, then?”

Robot shrugs, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “Fuck if I know. Whatever you want. Come up with something.”

Tyrell doesn’t say anything for a moment. He bites his lip when he’s thinking, Robot notices, and woah, hey, slow down on the noticing things.

“What about… _röd skottkärra_ ,” Tyrell says, and seriously? Swedish?

“What the hell does that mean,” Robot asks, blunt.

Tyrell smiles—just an upturn at the corner of his mouth. “Red wheelbarrow.”

Robot rolls his eyes. “I thought you hated that poem. Which, by the way, _is_ a really shitty poem.”

“I do,” Tyrell says, but there’s mirth in his eyes now. “But maybe I could… hate it less, if it reminded me of you.”

“Oh,” Robot says, suddenly quiet. _Well. Shit._

Tyrell looks down. “If—if you don’t like it—”

“No, it’s fine,” Robot says, fast. “I’ll keep it.”

He _really_ doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing now.

“Very well, _röd skottkärra_ ,” Tyrell murmurs, and damn it, does he have to sound like _that_ when he speaks Swedish?

Robot looks away, rubbing his hand through his hair again. _What was the plan here, again?_ It feels like the control he thought he had over everything—Stage Two, Elliot, Tyrell—is slipping away through his fingers like so many grains of sand. And it’s because of two words in _Swedish_ , of all things.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tyrell asks, just as gentle as before.

Robot can’t look at him—he has to gather himself first. Remind himself: you’re in charge here. You’re using Tyrell to stay in charge. Tyrell is a psychopathic maniac who murdered a woman and liked it. Tyrell forced himself into the plan. Tyrell…

…is sitting at the table, blue eyes wide with concern. He doesn’t look like much—just a man in a suit, crumpled at the edges.

“I’m fine,” Robot says, and he means it. “Just… a little surprised, is all.”

Tyrell smiles. “Don’t kiss many people, then?”

Robot rolls his eyes to hide the embarrassment he knows is sneaking up his neck. “So what if I don’t.”

Tyrell chuckles, and it’s a low, low sound. He _really_ needs to stop doing stuff like that.

Robot shakes it off and smirks, looking back at Tyrell. “Makes this all the more special, huh?”

Now it’s Tyrell’s turn to blush. “Oh.”

Robot glances out the window, finally registering that it’s _late_. Much later than he thought, what with the hack and all that followed.

“We should get some rest,” Robot says, walking toward the living room. “What say I take the couch?”

“Are you sure?” he hears Tyrell call. Robot plops down on the couch, and huh. It’s not stiff as a board—not five-stars, either, but he’ll take it.

“I’ll be just fine here, sweetcheeks,” Robot says, already lying down. “You take whatever bed they’ve got set up in there.”

He closes his eyes and listens to the chair scrape back from the table. Tyrell’s footsteps get closer, then further away, paired with the creak of a door opening.

There’s a pause, then: “ _Röd skottkärra_?”

“Hm?”

“Good night.”

“Night.” Robot waits until he hears the door close to let out a long, slow breath.

This is gonna be a long three days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating this fic every other day, so keep an eye out!

Robot jolts awake, breathing harsh. _Where_ —

He doesn’t recognize the couch he’s on. _Couch?_ _What the fuck—_

Elliot looks around, taking in the low, stained ceiling, the dirty tiles in the kitchen, the—

Robot blinks. Clenches his fists tight, feeling his nails dig sharply into his palms. Everything’s starting to flicker at the edges, and _fuck_ , he knows what this means.

Elliot’s waking up.

He staggers up from the couch, trying to keep Elliot calm, get him back to wherever he was before. _Stay in control. Stay in control. Stay in—_

Robot glances at the door to the bedroom. _Maybe…_

He stumbles over, feeling drunk and high all at once, and tries to knock. There’s no response from the other side, so he opens the door anyway, hoping Tyrell won’t have a fit.

 _Tyrell_. Just the mention of his name drives Elliot back, slows Robot’s breathing down to a manageable level. This is it—the grounding thing he was thinking about earlier. And if just _thinking_ about Tyrell keeps him in control, then…

He spots the top of Tyrell’s head, poking out from a mound of blankets. _There._

“Tyrell?” he says, and shit, his voice is fading in and out like static. He can’t tell who he sounds like—himself or Elliot. Maybe both.

The mound shifts, and then: “Elliot?”

Robot tightens his fists again.

Tyrell blinks, sleep dragging at his eyes. “Who…”

“Rude, uh… scotch? No, fuck, that’s not it,” Robot mutters.

“ _Röd skottkärra_ ,” Tyrell says, a smile drifting onto his lips.

“Yeah,” Robot sighs, and suddenly everything lines into place. Elliot goes to sleep in the back of his mind, none the wiser, and Mr. Robot stands in Tyrell’s room, finally feeling like himself.

…Except Tyrell is still looking at him, all soft with sleep, and Robot is just standing here like an idiot.

“Sorry I woke you up,” Robot says. “I… I needed a reminder.”

Tyrell just shakes his head. “Come here.”

Robot goes very, very still. This wasn’t what he signed up for. Maybe a few kisses, yeah, to keep Tyrell occupied, but not… cuddles in bed or whatever the fuck Tyrell is up to.

But Tyrell is there, holding out a hand to him and, well, what the hell. It’s only three days.

Robot takes Tyrell’s hand, and he lets himself be pulled into bed.

It’s all new, all of this: Tyrell’s arms wrapping around his middle, Tyrell’s legs curling around his own. Tyrell’s chest pressed close to his.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Tyrell whispers.

“Yeah,” Robot says, his brain short-circuiting.

He hesitates, just for a second, and then slides his own arms around Tyrell, feeling his back beneath his hands. He tucks his head under Tyrell’s chin and finds he fits there pretty well. Almost perfectly.

Tyrell sighs, the picture of contentment, and pretty soon he’s breathing deeply, lost in sleep.

Robot keeps looking up at him, closing his eyes, opening them again, trying not to fidget. There’s no protocol for this—no code he can turn to or easy shortcuts. There’s just _Tyrell_ , everywhere he looks and listens and breathes, and Robot, caught in the middle of it all.

He hears a voice at the back of his mind: _Stop thinking so much and just enjoy this._

It takes him a second to realize the voice is his own.

 _Fuck it. Fine._ He closes his eyes, breathes in the vague floral scent of what must be Tyrell’s laundry, and drifts slowly, easily, into sleep.

[[[]]]

When Mr. Robot opens his eyes, it’s an immediate relief. Elliot is still… somewhere else, and Robot is all-too happy to stay in charge for a little while longer. At least until these three days are up and he can figure out what to do next.

And speaking of three days… Mr. Robot remembers it all in flashes: the arcade, the cabin, the deal. The…

He glances up, and there’s Tyrell Wellick, still asleep, hair soft and slightly curled at the edges with sweat. He frowns in his sleep, Robot notices.

 _Shit. Stop noticing right now._ He hates that this is already a reminder he’s had to give himself multiple times over the course of not even a day. Tyrell is just a means to an end.

What the end is, Robot doesn’t really know, but there has to be one. This hack has to go through the way he planned, and if the Dark Army want to poke their heads in, fine. If Tyrell wants to get all weird and mushy, fine. Whatever it takes to get this thing accomplished so they can all go home and forget it ever happened.

Tyrell snores, lightly.

Yeah, Mr. Robot needs to forget _this_ ever happened.

He sneaks out from under Tyrell’s arm, moving as slowly as possible. Tyrell doesn’t wake up, though—seems he’s a heavy sleeper. Robot wishes he were, too, but with Elliot’s insomnia and his own frantic energy, it’s hard to go to sleep and stay that way.

Robot really, really doesn’t think about how he managed to get so much sleep last night.

He tiptoes his way to the bathroom and showers, needing to get the grime of yesterday off. It also didn’t help that he’d slept in his clothes—well. Elliot’s clothes, really. To Mr. Robot, he’s almost always wearing his (very comfortable) four layers of shirts and scarves and jacket.

But now he’s confronted with yet another obstacle: the matter of new clothes. He pokes his head out the bathroom door and watches Tyrell for a second. His breaths are even, deep, so Robot pads his way to the closet, hoping to find something in there.

Seems the Dark Army were here because there’s plenty of sweats and shirts. But that’s really the only plus, since they’re all in Tyrell’s size, and Tyrell isn’t exactly short.

Whatever. Robot shrugs on a gray t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, rolling them up to his ankles. The shirt’s a nice fit, honestly, and Robot can’t complain—it’s a lot like his own gray shirt, underneath his many layers. Hopefully the pants won’t unroll during the day.

He makes his way out to the tiny kitchen and spots the Target bag Irving left yesterday. Inside, there’s a pretty practical selection of food: eggs, pasta, milk, butter, flour, mince meat, frozen chicken. Bare essentials, some of which Robot sticks in the fridge.

He pokes his head in the cabinets, and _voilà!_ A few containers of dried-up herbs, a sugar bowl, a few more bottles hiding at the back. Everything you need for the most essential breakfast in the world.

Mr. Robot doesn’t consider himself a great cook by any means. Elliot has never been one for cooking—frozen meals and ramen are the kid’s best friend, along with all the junk food money can buy. And Robot was always down for a little Mickey D’s, but he’d found that cooking wasn’t too hard. Throw a bunch of stuff on a pan and, usually, you’d have yourself a meal.

Breakfast is easiest, and Robot feels like a little indulgence today. Soon enough, the kitchen is ripe with the smell of butter.

That’s, of course, when Tyrell decides to make an appearance. Robot hears him before he sees him—the soft sound of socks padding across the tiles. A shuffling, maybe Tyrell rubbing his eyes. A yawn.

“What’re you making?” Tyrell asks, voice low.

Robot turns around, showing off the spatula in his hand. “Pancakes! The best things in the world.”

Tyrell huffs, a smile curling his mouth. “They smell good.”

Robot turns back around, content to keep flipping, when he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist. His heart thuds in his chest, dull and hollow, as Tyrell leans his chin on Robot’s shoulder.

“Hey there,” Robot says, feeling far too shaky.

“ _Morrn_ , _älskling,_ ” Tyrell murmurs, right into Robot’s neck.

“Don’t fucking use Swedish on me,” Robot says, defaulting back into profanity and borderline insults. He can’t deal with all of… _this_ , especially not this early.

He can feel Tyrell’s smile on his skin. “What, you don’t like it, _röd skottkärra?”_

“That one’s fine,” Robot mutters. “It’s all this other shit that I don’t know.”

“I could teach you.”

“Or,” Mr. Robot says, pointedly moving away from Tyrell, “you could eat these pancakes.”

Tyrell’s arms drop back to his sides, and he looks—disappointed? _Shit_. Balancing the whole “keeping Tyrell calm” thing with the other “don’t want to deal with any of this” thing is harder than Robot expected.

“C’mon, I made a whole bunch,” Robot implores, holding out a plate.

Tyrell acquiesces, taking the offered stack. Robot brings his own to the table, eager to chow down when—

“Do we not have any syrup? _Fuck_ ,” Robot groans. “I _knew_ I should’ve checked first—”

“Hold on,” Tyrell says, getting up. He opens up a few of the cabinets, peering in.

“I already looked,” Robot says. “There’s just herbs and a whole lotta nothing in there.”

“What about this?” And Tyrell, smug as ever, holds up a small container of powdered sugar. Must’ve been hiding at the back, where Robot couldn’t reach.

“You are a fucking lifesaver,” Robot grins. Tyrell grins back, and wow, he can smile when he wants to.

Tyrell sprinkles a good amount of sugar over both of their pancakes, but Robot quickly snatches it up when he’s done, adding another layer to his own.

“Sweet tooth,” Tyrell comments.

“A little,” Robot says, digging in. He’s not one for tooting his own horn all that much, but these are _divine_. Some of his best work yet.

Tyrell even looks pleased—his eyes are crinkled at the edges with a suppressed smile. Robot doesn’t mind the look on him.

 _Stop thinking like that._ Robot shakes his head, polishing off the last of the pancakes.

“Those were… good,” Tyrell says, putting down his own fork.

“Why, thank you,” Robot says, putting a hand to his chest. “The recipe has been passed down for generations.”

Tyrell raises an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t say they were magnificent.”

“Didn’t need to,” Robot points. “You were smiling the whole time, I could tell.”

Tyrell—blushes. _Huh_. “They just reminded me of my youth. Happier times.”

“What, you have pancakes in Sweden?”

“Something like it,” Tyrell says, looking off somewhere beyond Robot’s shoulder. “We used to make them a bit thinner. My mother always had jam, _lingon_.”

“Doesn’t sound too shabby,” Robot says. He’d never bothered to pry into the Swede’s life—the only thing he really knew was that he hated his father for that fucking wheelbarrow poem. Probably more to it than that, but Mr. Robot wasn’t one for poking his nose in business like that. Better to leave it buried.

“I was… content, then,” Tyrell says. “Young. I only cared about pancakes and ice skating.”

“You? Ice skating?” Robot has to laugh at that one. “I can see you falling all over the place.”

Tyrell scowls. “I’ll have you know I was excellent at skating. I could do tricks.”

“Really? You’ll have to show me sometime.”

There’s a beat, where Robot realizes what he’s just said and Tyrell’s eyes widen slightly. _Shit, shit, backtrack—_

But Tyrell smiles, small and fond. “I’ll take you to Rockefeller.”

Now Robot really laughs. “That fucking waste of cash? Any old rink will do.”

“You have to try it at least once,” Tyrell says. “And, well. I’ve never been, either.”

“There’s a surprise,” Robot raises his eyebrows. “Here I am thinking you go around tossing your money at every tourist trap in town.”

“I’ve lived here for a long time,” Tyrell scoffs. “I’m as uninterested in the flashy lights as you are.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Robot spends far too long just smiling at Tyrell, studying his rumpled shirt, his unusually-messy hair, his eyes, flickering up to meet Robot’s and skittering just as quickly away. It’s odd, seeing him out of the suit—it feels too intimate, somehow. A lot like uncovering someone’s bug, as Elliot would put it—the secret self everyone tries to keep hidden.

But Tyrell isn’t hiding now—he’s letting Robot see all versions of him, asleep and just awake and stuffed with pancakes and memories.

It’s suddenly too much, and Robot stands up from the table, grabbing their plates.

“Lemme get these washed,” he says, tossing them in the sink. “Then we can get to work.”

“And do what?”

“We still have a lot of ground to cover,” Robot says. “Those woods won’t look at themselves.”

“I’ll get dressed,” Tyrell says, and he’s gone, finally leaving Robot room to breathe.

He looks down at his hands and sees that they’re shaking, just a bit.

Fuck this. Fuck _all_ of this. Fuck the Dark Army and their shit agenda, fuck the hack for not working, fuck the FBI for finding them, fuck this cabin, fuck these three days, and _fuck Tyrell fucking Wellick_.

Well. Maybe he shouldn’t think about that last one.

[[[]]]

An hour or so later, Mr. Robot is regretting the proposed walk in the woods.

He’s never been very good with navigating—his sense of direction is shit, and trying to follow a map is like trying to read Swedish. Half the time he just wanders until he ends up where he’s supposed to.

But that logic doesn’t really apply to the woods—let alone 37 acres of it.

Tyrell isn’t exactly happy, either. Especially considering he put his suit back on for their hike, for whatever fuckin’ reason.

“Where are we?” Tyrell asks, a few feet behind Robot. He’s been starting to straggle, and Robot is already tired enough without the Swede getting on his nerves.

“Would it help if I said I had no fucking clue?” Robot says, throwing up his hands.

The footsteps behind him stop. _Oh, for fuck’s sake._

Robot whirls around, finding Tyrell with his hands stuffed deep into his suit pockets.

“If you don’t know where we are, then why did we start walking?” Tyrell asks. He doesn’t look up.

“I don’t know, alright? I just figured if we picked a direction and rolled with it, we’d find something.”

“You—” Tyrell stops, shaking his head. “That was your plan? No plan at all?”

“Look, we had to start somewhere—”

“And you decided to just go for it?”

“I didn’t see you complaining back at the cabin!” Robot says, gesturing wildly around them. “You just followed me like a lost dog.”

“I’m not a dog,” Tyrell snarls, and _ooh_ , hit a nerve there. Something lies underneath his words—years of resentment, maybe. Someone had done a number on him.

“I never said you were,” Robot says, bringing his voice way down. _Focus on keeping him calm. That’s the point. Keep him calm._

Tyrell sniffs, looking off into the woods. Robot hated to admit it, but Tyrell was right for once—they’d wandered out far with no sense of anything, and it was (mostly) Robot’s fault.

“Hey,” Robot says. “Look. What d’you say we go back to the cabin. Draw up a plan since you want one so bad.”

Tyrell doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look as pissed off as earlier. _Progress_.

“We’ll come back better prepared, huh?” Robot tries. And he steps a little closer, regretting it, and takes Tyrell’s hand in his own.

That earns him a look. Robot feels Tyrell squeeze his hand, and he tries not to think too much about it.

“Okay,” Tyrell finally, finally agrees.

Robot sends up a ‘thank you’ to whatever is listening, and hand-in-hand, they make their way back to the cabin.

[[[]]]

Their plan isn’t much—just a semi-coordinated grid to map out each acre. And it, shockingly, doesn’t take too long to walk, once they’ve gotten it down on paper.

Robot doesn’t want to let Tyrell win this one, but by the end of the day, they’ve got a much better idea of the land. Where the ground sensors should be, where fences definitely are, and where there’s a whole lot of nothing.

The kind of places perfect for a fugitive to run out of.

“We’ll just have to wait,” Robot says, strolling back inside. It’s starting to get dark out there, and he’s more than happy to get back in where it’s at least a little warm at night.

“For what?” Tyrell asks, walking in after him.

“For the Dark Army to look the other way. The moment is ripe when they trust you not to do anything stupid, and you do it anyway,” Robot smirks.

“But… we’ll have a plan,” Tyrell says. “You’ll be waiting for me. Outside.”

Robot stops for a second, hesitant. “Yeah, sure.”

He turns away from Tyrell, hoping to blow off the moment by digging in the fridge. “Anything good in here? I’m starving!”

Tyrell doesn’t respond, leaving Robot to pick up the conversational pieces. _Great_.

He pulls out the mince meat, shaking it gently at Tyrell. “I dunno if you’re a Swedish meatballs guy, but I’d love to learn.”

Finally, Tyrell smiles, a little bit. “Those are overrated.”

Robot rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Tyrell. I know you know how to make them.”

“You don’t know that,” Tyrell says, but he’s already making his way over, opening the cabinets and grabbing a few bottles.

Robot has considered himself a good cook, but Tyrell is fascinating to watch. He’s calmer than he is doing anything else, relaxing into the motions of adding spices, rolling meatballs, frying them up on a pan. He’s—happy, Robot realizes. Or at the very least, content.

“Seems you like to cook,” Robot points out, watching Tyrell stir the pot of pasta.

Tyrell looks up, startled. “Oh. I guess so.”

“No need to get all humble on me,” Robot chuckles. “You just seem… dunno. Relaxed.”

“It’s all muscle memory, really,” Tyrell says, looking back down at the food. “Childhood, teenage years. Nothing special.”

“Well, you could be the shittiest chef on earth for all I know, but those,” Robot says, pointing to the meatballs, “smell pretty damn good.”

Tyrell laughs, and it’s bright, open. “You’ll have to eat them first before you judge them.”

“They’re already scoring pretty well on the smell meter,” Robot says.

“No such thing,” Tyrell says, moving the meatballs around.

“I’ll have you know there are three essential parts to every good meal,” Robot says, counting them off on his fingers. “One. The smell. Two. The taste. And three. The company.”

That draws Tyrell’s eyes. “And how is this scoring in the third category?”

“…Pretty well,” Robot says, hating how his voice gets quiet.

“That’s it?” Tyrell laughs again. “Not ‘excellent’ or even ‘great’?”

“Hold your horses, Chef Wellick,” Robot says, smiling despite everything. “The dinner ain’t over yet.”

“Dinner? Not a date?” Tyrell asks, his eyes sparkling, and _oh_ , _oh no_. Robot feels whatever was in the air—the easiness, the banter between them—wilt and die with one word.

“No,” Robot mutters, turning away. He knows Tyrell is looking at him, confused, but he can’t bear to look back. This, the— _flirting_ , really, if he’s being honest, is one thing, but _dating?_ That’s an attachment Mr. Robot can do without.

And as he keeps having to remind himself, this _thing_ with Tyrell means nothing.

“Oh,” Tyrell says, and the whole dinner has changed, just like that. Three little words and it’s silent, just the two of them eating and trying not to make eye contact.

It kills Robot that the meatballs are actually pretty damn good.

The dishes soon clatter into the sink, Robot not caring where they land or if they break. It feels like there’s a string being wound around them, tightening in the air until one of them whips out a pair of scissors and snaps.

Of course it ends up being Tyrell.

“Do you mean any of this?” Tyrell asks, point-blank.

Robot stops, turns. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

Tyrell doesn’t look up at him. He uncurls his fingers on the table, curls them back into a fist.

Robot rolls his eyes. “Tyrell. What the fuck kind of question is that?”

“An important one!” Tyrell bursts out. “How am I supposed to know how you feel? About me, about any of this?”

“Fuck how I feel,” Robot says. “Who gives a shit. Didn’t you have a wife, last I checked? A child?”

“Don’t drag my family into this,” Tyrell hisses.

“Why not?” Robot says, storming over to where Tyrell is sitting. He’s losing it, he _knows_ he’s losing it, but there’s something about Tyrell that brings this out—the frustration, the anger. And Robot can’t help but lean into it.

Tyrell isn’t saying anything—he’s just breathing, harsher and harsher with every passing second.

“Don’t you _care_ about them?” Robot says, dropping his voice to a low whisper. “Doesn’t that _mean_ anything?”

“Stop,” Tyrell says.

“What was that?” Robot says, putting a hand to his ear. “I didn’t quite catch th—”

“I _said_ ,” Tyrell says, standing up and forcing Robot to back off, “Stop trying to pry your way into my fucking life!”

“You’re the one who forced your way into mine!” Robot yells back. “All this high and mighty shit doesn’t work on me, Wellick.”

“Oh, we’ve resorted to last names now?” Tyrell scoffs.

“Fuck off.”

“No,” Tyrell says, taking another step closer. “I want you to tell me the truth and stop playing with my head.”

Robot breathes, breathes, breathes. “The only one playing with _anyone’s_ head here is you!”

“That’s bullsh—”

“How do you think anyone else would feel knowing you have a wife at home?” Robot all but snarls.

Tyrell rolls his eyes this time. “Oh, wow. So you’re saying you _do_ feel something?”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Make me,” Tyrell says, and oh, he wants to be petty? Mr. Robot can _do_ petty.

Robot shoves him. Just a light shove, really, but it forces Tyrell to look at him, really look.

“Fuck you,” Tyrell says, vicious and full of poison.

“Fuck _you_ ,” Robot growls, dropping all pretense of thought or foresight. If Tyrell wants this argument to turn into a cage fight, then he’ll fucking deliver.

“You—you—” Tyrell cuts himself off with a yell, picking up one of the chairs and tossing it. The sound of it crashing to the ground doesn’t make Robot flinch—it’s the unexpectedness of Tyrell’s strength, wasted on tantrums like this.

And a light goes off in Robot’s mind. Distantly, he wonders if this is such a good idea, and then he remembers who he is and throws all caution out a fifty-story window.

He reaches out to Tyrell, grabs his tie, and _yanks_. Hard.

Tyrell chokes on his own gasp, and Robot takes full advantage to get right into his pretty, porcelain face.

“Don’t fucking waste my time, dollface,” Robot all but spits.

 _“Fan ta dig, kuksugare_ ,” Tyrell says, breathy and awful. Even when he’s (probably) cursing Robot out, he’s dainty as a rose, hair still ridiculous and suit still perfectly tailored.

“Don’t you use your Swedish bullshit on me!” Robot fires back, shaking Tyrell for emphasis.

Tyrell laughs, and it’s the worst sound Robot’s ever heard.

That’s enough to snap Robot’s already-broken control in twenty more pieces. He _pushes_ , sending himself and Tyrell across the room to the wall, where he slams Tyrell’s back, grip still mangled in his tie.

Tyrell gasps, almost twisting out of Robot’s hold. Robot tugs him back into place.

“You’re not going fucking anywhere,” Robot says, and that’s when he meets Tyrell’s eyes.

Something stops, then. Whatever he sees there, in those pearly blues, Robot couldn’t say. It’s enough to make him want to scream, and he’s already shaking with a tide of anger.

But it’s like the ocean crashing in him _shifts_ —the wind turns slightly, the sand blows right instead of left.

Tyrell’s eyes say “yes” instead of “no.”

And Robot feels the walls around him—the ones he built to keep this Swedish scumfuck out—dissolve.

Mr. Robot yanks on Tyrell’s tie and meets his stupid perfect mouth with his.

It’s like he’s trying to leave a bruise—pressing hard into Tyrell, harder than the first time they’d done this, letting his teeth do some of the talking. He catches Tyrell’s lips at an opportune moment and bites _down_ , and Tyrell all but collapses. He tastes blood and salt and sugar and it’s like nicotine’s being poured into his veins.

Tyrell tries to bring his hands up, get a grip, but Robot knows just who’s in charge here. He lets go of Tyrell’s tie and snatches both of his wrists, pinning them back against the wall.

Tyrell—Tyrell lets out a _noise_. One that travels straight through Robot’s bones, a hum he won’t forget anytime soon, a moan he needs to hear again right _fucking now_.

He pulls away from Tyrell’s lips—tantalizing as they are—and kisses his jaw, working his way down to Tyrell’s neck.

Who knew marking bruises into someone’s— _Tyrell’s_ —neck felt this good? Who knew Tyrell would dip his head back to allow Robot better access? Who knew Tyrell would sigh like that, say his name ( _r_ _öd skottkärra_ , he remembered, of _course_ he remembered) hoarse and broken open?

Robot can’t keep it—the control—and his hands drop from Tyrell’s wrists, shaking. He clings to Tyrell like a lifeline instead, pushing his way closer, the _need_ to be near him banishing any other decisions from his mind.

Tyrell immediately winds his arms around Robot in turn, his hands trawling down his back and then up again, this time under Robot’s shirt and _holy shit_. Tyrell’s hands are a major distraction from anything Robot is trying to accomplish on Tyrell’s neck and he pulls back, breathing out in a hard crash of air.

“ _Tyrell_ ,” he says, and oh boy, Tyrell liked that. His hands roam over Robot’s chest, frantic and slow in equal measure, and Robot knows he’s a broken record but he needs to get Tyrell horizontal right. _Now_.

“Pretty boy like you,” Robot purrs, stopping Tyrell dead in his tracks, “should come with me.”

Tyrell can only nod. Robot looks up into his eyes and he almost falls down, right there in the kitchen, feeling abruptly too much and not enough.

“Huh,” Robot breathes, and Tyrell leans in for a sloppy kiss this time, disgusting and messy and so, so good.

Tyrell pulls back, nosing his way to Robot’s neck and murmurs, “I’ll go with you anywhere.”

Robot’s eyes flutter. Damn it all, he’d burn the cabin down with them inside it to hear Tyrell say that again.

“Let’s not waste any more time, then,” Robot whispers.

They push, pull, stumble their way through the cabin, hands never quite off one another, and finally there’s a bed behind Tyrell’s knees and they fall forward, backward, and Robot is on top of Tyrell and Tyrell’s hands are everywhere and _fuck, this is good_.

Robot kisses him again, all tongue this time. Tyrell _shifts_ underneath him, careful and planned, and Robot barely suppresses a moan.

He feels around for Tyrell’s belt, undoing it as quick as he can, and Tyrell’s doing the same to Robot’s belt, and then they’re both pulling, pulling, and then there’s nothing.

Robot pulls back, just for a second, and realizes that both of them still have their shirts on, impossibly.

It looks… well, stupid, really. He has to laugh.

“What?” Tyrell frowns, cheeks a lovely, flustered red.

“Nothing, just—” Robot laughs again, breathless. “Take your fucking shirt off.”

“Oh.” And then Tyrell laughs a little, and then his shirt is gone, and _oh_.

Tyrell pulls Robot’s shirt off before he can really look, but once that’s gone, it’s just him and Tyrell and nothing else, nothing at all.

Robot wants—he wants so much. Too much. But he wants to take this slow, suddenly, looking at Tyrell spread out beneath him.

“Let me…” Robot murmurs, and then he’s kissing his way down Tyrell’s neck again, but this time he goes further. Down his collarbone, over his chest, letting his lips trace a path over Tyrell’s skin, everywhere he can touch.

Tyrell is a mess, noises escaping his throat that would make anyone blush. Robot can’t say he doesn’t like it. It’s… it’s _everything_.

“Please,” Tyrell says, hoarse, and Robot pauses his work, looks up at him. And the kissing was nice, more than nice, but hell, Tyrell’s expression says everything Robot needs to hear.

“Yeah,” is all Robot is able to say, and then they’re kissing again, tongues and teeth and lips.

“There’s… in the drawers,” Tyrell manages to say, between gasps.

“What?” Robot asks, genuinely confused, but then it clicks. “Oh. Yeah.”

Tyrell’s mouth lifts at the corners. “Quick.”

And Robot sees another opportunity. He places a finger over Tyrell’s mouth.

“Shh,” Robot says, and oh, Tyrell _liked_ that, based on the look he’s giving him.

Robot leans over to the drawer, and damn, Tyrell really did come prepared. He gets them both ready—a process he didn’t know anyone could relish—and then there’s just him, and Tyrell, and them, together, saying each other’s names and moving in time and breathing and not breathing and shuddering and aching and gasping and everything, everything, _everything_.

[[[]]]

After, Mr. Robot feels the usual, and rather cliché, compulsion to light a cigarette.

He lies on his back, watching the smoke twist and rise, and barely notices when Tyrell speaks up.

“You shouldn’t do that inside,” he says.

Robot shrugs. “Bad habits.”

There’s no response, so Robot turns to look at him and raises an eyebrow. “Want me to go outside and finish this? Because I think I’d be a little cold.”

Tyrell doesn’t laugh—instead, he plucks the cigarette out of Robot’s hand. Before he can say a word, Tyrell takes a drag. Like he’s used to it.

“Well, there’s something new,” Robot says.

“It was a bad habit,” Tyrell smirks, but there’s something cold in it. “Joanna made me stop.”

The air stills at the mention of her name. Robot can feel the warmth in his skin dissipate.

“Nothing wrong with a little indulgence every now and again, though, huh?” Robot says, trying to revive the _thing_ that’d been hanging over them, the thing without a name.

Tyrell turns to look at him, eyes unreadable beyond the smoke. “Is that what this is? Indulgence?”

Robot scoffs. “Tyrell—”

And he stops whatever excuse was going to come out of his mouth, because Tyrell just takes another drag off of his cigarette, looking as tired and empty as Mr. Robot normally feels.

There’s something so wrong about that—about this man who cries at everything and throws things in his path and feels far, far too much sinking away into himself, becoming just as cold as snow.

“Tyrell,” Robot says again, and this time Tyrell notices the difference in the way he says it. “This… this is hard. For me.”

Tyrell rolls his eyes. “Really.”

“I’m fucking serious,” Robot says, urgent. “Just listen to me, okay? Then you can take or leave whatever bullshit I say, but—please.”

And he’s never said that before to anyone—never had to use manners, never had to beg. But Tyrell is becoming someone he’d do all these new things for, and he can’t know what that means, even if he wants to.

Tyrell stubs the cigarette out on the side table and looks at him. Waits.

“You remember when you asked me if I’d ever kissed anyone,” Robot starts. “I have. A few times. But… I’ve never really… meant it.”

Tyrell is as quiet as the woods outside.

“So this… thing,” Robot says, gesturing between them, “is a lot. Even if it doesn’t seem like it to you. I can’t just… confess my undying love or whatever you want me to do.”

“I don’t—”

“Lemme finish,” Robot says, closing his eyes. “I’m just trying something new. And I know you feel a whole lot, but I don’t. So…”

He runs a hand through his hair, feeling more vulnerable than ever, and Tyrell says nothing, does nothing.

“If you don’t wanna keep this up, that’s fine,” Robot mutters.

“Do you want to?” Tyrell finally asks. “Keep this?”

It’s such a simple question, and Mr. Robot doesn’t really know his own heart, never has, but something in it, he thinks, stirs.

“Yeah,” Robot says. “I do.”

And Tyrell, Tyrell, Tyrell takes that answer for what it is: the most desperate attempt at honesty Robot has ever tried.

And he kisses him, and Robot finally lets himself go.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes, heart pounding in his ribs, and the usual instinct is there, the one that’s buried deep in his bones: fight or flight.

It takes him a minute to place where he is, even who. Elliot isn’t here, impossibly. There’s still no trace of him, wherever he is.

Mr. Robot breathes out, finally, and lets himself look around. There’s not much to look at—well. His face is buried in someone’s back, but it’s not hard to figure out who.

He’s startled, too, when he realizes their legs are intertwined, so casually. There’s nothing to escape—every inch of space is taken up by Tyrell, everywhere he looks and breathes and touches.

It collapses on him—the nearness. The… intimacy of it all.

So Robot does what he does best: he detaches. Untangles himself from Tyrell—thankfully, he’s the heaviest sleeper Robot’s ever seen—and hits the shower.

He scrubs shampoo harshly into his hair, trying to sort out anything, a plan, even, and failing. _I shouldn’t have done that. I really shouldn’t have done that. I really, really shouldn’t have done that._

Robot doesn’t bother going anywhere near the bed once he’s out and dressed. Fuck dealing with any of this—he needs to walk.

There it is again. That fight or flight instinct, maybe left over from Elliot, maybe shared. It’s what forces him out of the cabin, walking down toward the woods with no clear direction in mind.

He stomps through the undergrowth, not much caring if there’s anyone around to hear. If Irving was right, there’s no one.

And of fucking _course_ Robot forgot about that, too. This was day three, and Irving and his cronies would be back at least by evening to scoop him up and dump him who-knows-where.

And Tyrell… would be left. Here.

Robot kicks a rock in his way, watching it crash through the leaves. He was supposed to keep Tyrell calm—get him on board for whatever bullshit the Dark Army could conjure up. If that meant kissing pretty, fine.

But now Robot had fucking gone and fucked him. And if Tyrell was as easy to predict as he’d been in the past, he’d get all weepy about it, and start arguing with him about what he’d said last night—

Robot stops short. It all comes back in a rush, everything after, the conversation they’d had—

_“Do you want to? Keep this?”_

_“Yeah. I do.”_

Robot immediately turns around, taking off his hat to rake a hand through his hair. _Shit shit shit shit shit._

Not only did he fuck the Swedish dumbass, but he’d also confessed… what? _Feelings?_ Mr. Robot didn’t do feelings. He did revolutions, he toppled corporate empires, he _planned_.

And none of this had been planned. _So maybe…_

Robot arrives back at the cabin, spotting Tyrell through the kitchen window.

Maybe he could turn this back into a plan. Play the feelings card and see what unfolded.

“Where did you go?” Tyrell asks as soon as Mr. Robot walks in. Tyrell’s frying up something at the stove—eggs, by the smell of it.

“Out,” Robot shrugs. “Needed to clear my head.”

“Of what?” Tyrell keeps his eyes on the eggs, scrambling them.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Robot says, wrapping an arm around Tyrell’s waist. “What’s cooking, good looking?”

Tyrell huffs. “Not your best.”

“I’ve got plenty more, honey bunch,” Robot smiles, leaning in. “Those look good.”

“Just scrambled, _käraste_.”

“Again with the Swedish?” Robot takes his arm away, plopping down at the table.

“Only because you like it so much,” Tyrell laughs.

Robot rolls his eyes. “Sure I do, angel face.”

“Sounds like you’re issuing a challenge,” Tyrell says. He serves up the eggs, sitting down across from Robot with forks in hand.

“Really? What kind?” Robot digs in, and damn, this Swede can really cook, even when it’s just eggs.

“With your pet names, _hjärtat_ ,” Tyrell smirks.

“Oh, come on,” Robot says, shaking his head. “You’ve got too many of those and I don’t even know what they mean.”

“I told you I could teach you.”

“Why the fuck do I need to know any Swedish,” Robot scoffs. Tyrell’s face falls, just a bit, and _shit,_ Robot needs to backtrack if this plan is going to work.

“I’m _kidding_ ,” Robot says. “Try me.”

Tyrell leans back in his chair, appraising Robot. It’s… unsettling, being scanned like this. Robot fidgets, pulling at the brim of his hat.

“Okay,” Tyrell says, finally. “ _Älskling_.”

“Elsking?”

“Close. _Älskling_.”

“ _Älskling_ ,” Robot nods. “That better not mean ‘dipshit’ or something.”

Tyrell laughs—a bright, bright sound. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh really? Because I think—”

Tyrell holds up a hand, and Robot really shouldn’t let him get away with it but he does, just this once. Just for the sake of peace. “It means ‘darling.’”

“Huh,” Robot says. _Fuck_ , he thinks.

“Well, close enough,” Tyrell shrugs. “It comes from the word for ‘love.’ I… I know you said—”

“It’s fine, Tyrell,” Robot says, meeting Tyrell’s eyes. “It’s… nice. I guess.”

Tyrell smiles, and something about the way the light’s coming in the dusty window makes Robot’s chest seize. “I’m glad you like it.”

Robot clears his throat, stands up from the table. “Well, um. What’s the plan for today, _älskling_?”

“Now you’re just overusing it,” Tyrell chuckles, standing up with him.

“No such thing,” Robot says. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“There’s not much to do without any tech,” Tyrell muses. “We already walked the grounds…”

Robot’s eyes light on a bookshelf in the corner and he strolls over, already delighted to see a copy of Tolstoy hanging around. “This looks promising, eh?”

But when he turns around, book in hand, Tyrell is suddenly very, very close. His nose brushes Robot’s cheek, and he has to suppress a shiver.

“We could… take up our time in other ways,” Tyrell murmurs.

Robot doesn’t say anything. How can Tyrell do this—be soft and malleable one instant, then turn to… this? All control?

Tyrell’s hands brush at his waist, and if this keeps up, Robot knows he won’t be able to resist it.

He has to remind Tyrell who’s in charge.

Mr. Robot takes one of Tyrell’s wrists in his hand, pulling it gently away. “Time enough for that. What say we dive into a little Russian literature?”

Tyrell frowns. “What?”

Robot shakes the book. “If you haven’t read this, you should. Come on.”

And he brushes past Tyrell to the couch, flopping down and patting the seat next to him.

Tyrell is slow to react, but he joins Robot in the end, as Robot knew he would. _Good. Keep him malleable._

Robot flicks the book open and puts on his best reading voice. “Chapter One—”

Tyrell pokes his arm.

“What? Can’t you see I’m trying to—” And then Robot is being pulled back into Tyrell’s lap, his head on one of Tyrell’s thighs.

“Okay,” Tyrell says, above him. “Go ahead.”

Robot glares up at him, but Tyrell just smiles, the picture of serenity. _Getting this guy under control will still take some work._

But he acquiesces, sighs. “Okay, okay. Chapter One. ‘Well, Prince, Genoa and Luca are now nothing more than estates…’”

[[[]]]

“’…He shook his head in disapproval and slammed the door.’ End of Part One.”

Tyrell looks down, meeting Mr. Robot’s eyes. “That’s only the first part?”

“Yeah. There’s four volumes and a fuckton of parts and chapters in each one,” Robot sighs, putting the book down, face open, on his chest.

“That’s… a lot,” Tyrell says.

Robot shrugs. “You get what you pay for with Tolstoy. The man doesn’t hold back.”

“I’ve never read his work before.”

“ _Never?_ I would’ve thought a guy like you with a suit like yours would be all over this literature shit,” Robot laughs.

It’s Tyrell’s turn to shrug. “I never had much interest.”

“What?” Robot peers up at him. “Too busy taking over the corporate world to pick up a book?”

“No, just…” Tyrell looks off, eyes far away. “I never read much. I liked computers, but… my father always tried to get me to read more.”

“No wonder you hated him,” Robot smirks.

Tyrell looks sharply down. “It wasn’t because of _that_. He… well, he couldn’t read English, but he wanted me to. And at the same time, he wanted me to help around the farm. He… he wanted so _much_.”

Robot watches, puzzled, as Tyrell clenches and unclenches his fist.

“Too much, huh,” Robot says.

Tyrell scoffs. “Yeah. What about your father, then?”

Robot rolls his eyes. “What about him. He was weak. That’s all there is to it.”

“You’re so… flippant,” Tyrell says.

“Keen observation, dollface.”

“If you don’t want to talk about him, that’s fine,” Tyrell says, looking away. “I just thought I’d ask.”

They lie there in silence for a while, Robot watching the sky outside slowly turn orange.

“I hate to ask, but…” Robot trails off. “Do you miss them? You know… Joanna. Your son.”

Tyrell stiffens underneath him, and Robot can see his fist clench again.

“Hey, you don’t have to—” Robot starts.

“I do,” Tyrell says, quiet. “Of course I do.”

And there’s a move Mr. Robot can make here—a risky, risky move. But what is he good for if not taking risks?

“Then what about us?” Robot asks.

Tyrell looks down at him, and _shit_ , he’s crying.

“Hey…” Robot says, not sure how to continue. He reaches up instead, wiping the tears at the corner of Tyrell’s eyes away with a swipe of his thumb. Tyrell leans into the contact, breathing shakily.

“I need them,” Tyrell says, finally. “But I want you.”

And he leans down, kissing Robot gently, and Robot cannot bear to kiss him back, but he does. He does.

Tyrell leans back, a question in his eyes that Robot can read plainly.

“I… I want you, too,” Robot says, and it’s not a confession if it’s a plan, it _can’t_ be because what would all this mean, then? What would it all be _for?_

Tyrell smiles, tears reforming. “Oh, _röd skottkärra_.”

_Fucking hell_ , Robot thinks, and then he pulls Tyrell in.

It doesn’t last long—gravel crunches outside.

Robot moves sharply away, scrambling up from the couch. “Fuck. They’re here.”

Tyrell looks up at him, and damn. His hair is disheveled, his eyes wide, and Robot just—

Robot wants to _stay_.

But the front door is already opening, and Irving strolls in, jangling car keys in his hand.

“Alright, sunshine, let’s go,” he says, gesturing to Robot.

Robot glances back at Tyrell, who’s stood up from the couch. He tries to meet Tyrell’s eyes, but he’s too busy staring at Irving.

“C’mon, Mr. Alderson. I don’t have all day, and you know how our organization feels about time,” Irving drawls.

“I’m coming,” Robot says, making his way over. He doesn’t look back, can’t look back, but like Orpheus—

He meets Tyrell’s eyes, and they’re blue, so blue in the dim light of the cabin.

And Robot tries to tell him with a look, just one _: I’ll get you out of here. I promise._

And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but Tyrell’s look back seems to say: _I’ll wait for you._

And Mr. Robot leaves.

[[[]]]

“So, what’s the deal with you two,” Irving asks. It’s just him and Mr. Robot in the car this time, but the implied threat hangs over them still. Robot won’t try anything, anyway. He ran out of stupid moves to make against the Dark Army the second he entered that cabin.

“There is no deal,” Robot scoffs. “We just work together.”

“Hah!” Irving laughs. “Oldest line in the book.”

Robot rolls his eyes. “I’m not talking to you about this.”

“Sure, sure,” Irving says. “But listen. If you think you’re being subtle here, you’re not. You’re just lucky I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“Who said anything about _romance?_ ”

“Oh, so that’s how you’re playing it,” Irving says, tapping the steering wheel.

Robot doesn’t have anything to say to that. He’s been done with this conversation.

“I don’t really care how you define it,” Irving sighs. “Just as long as our man back there is on board with everything, we’re good. Capiche?”

Robot snorts. “Capiche.”

They’re silent for a long time after that—Robot just watches the road go by, the trees turn slowly into houses and apartment buildings.

“Will I be able to talk to him?” Robot asks, startling himself with the question.

Irving sucks air through his teeth. “Not too sure on that one. Most likely, no.”

“Fine.” Robot keeps his eyes outside, the city looming large in front of them. “Just… don’t talk to him about me.”

“Making a lot of demands again, I see,” Irving says.

“I’m fucking asking,” Robot snaps.

“Alright, alright, hold your horses,” Irving says, putting up a hand. “I won’t. Can’t stop him from asking about you, though.”

Robot nods, not caring if Irving can’t see it.

Irving says something else, but suddenly it feels like Mr. Robot is underwater—the sound gets turned way down, the pressure in his head builds. _Shit. Elliot._

“Here we are, then,” Irving says, breaking through the static in Robot’s head as the car moves back into a small parking lot. “I’ll leave you here. I presume you’ll follow our advice and stay low for a while?”

Robot shrugs, barely able to follow any of the words.

“Good. We’ll contact you,” Irving says, and then he’s out of the car, the door slamming shut behind him.

Now Robot really loses his shit, blinking rapidly and struggling to breathe. Elliot is poking at the corner of his mind, and without—without Tyrell, there’s nothing Robot can do to stop him. _Unless… fuck it._

Mr. Robot promptly passes out.


	4. Chapter 4

Robot really thought he had it all under control until the moment Elliot looks past him and says, “Guilty.”

After that, shit royally hits the fan.

Not only does Elliot now have the upper hand, but Robot can’t tell him about… everything. And it’s not for lack of trying: Elliot can’t seem to shut up about Tyrell. He keeps asking from the moment he wakes up in Tyrell’s SUV, and, really, Robot should have seen that one coming, but he can’t say a word. It would ruin everything they’ve accomplished thus far.

And it… wouldn’t be fair to Tyrell. They’d made an escape plan together, one Mr. Robot intends to follow through on despite how ridiculous it seems, and he’s not planning on letting Elliot in on their secret.

This one is Robot’s to keep.

But the days slink by, turning into weeks in bounds, and Robot’s getting anxious. They’ve been stuck in this hellhole for far too long already, and Elliot isn’t listening to reason, and Tyrell is trapped out in some fucking cabin with no one—

_Shit. Stop. Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine._

And yet the weeks turn and turn, amassing to months before Robot can stop them.

He eventually gets tired of waiting for Elliot to see reason and tries to act—to contact Tyrell, the Dark Army, whoever the fuck will listen.

But computers are hard to come by and access with the outside world is even harder—especially when the person you’re trying to call is in the middle of nowhere.

Robot is nothing if not tenacious, though, and finally a call goes through—with Elliot on the line. That’s the bargain Robot made with the universe: he could contact Tyrell (secondhand) and get Elliot off his back. Two for one, hopefully.

“Is it really you?” Tyrell asks, and though Robot is hiding from Elliot, a wave of relief washes over him. It’s that grounding feeling again, the _presence_ Tyrell has, even masked by static over the phone.

“Who is this?” Elliot replies, and of fucking _course_ he would ask. Robot has never needed to.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Tyrell says. It sounds like a confession. Robot hates that he isn’t the one hearing it.

“Where are you?”

“Not yet where I’m supposed to be,” Tyrell says, the joking tone in his voice clear to Robot. “But soon, very soon.”

“And where is that?” Elliot asks, quiet.

_Shit._ The more Elliot asks, the more paranoid Tyrell is going to get. The more confused.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tyrell says, careful.

“You think someone’s listening?”

There’s a pause, then: “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

_I’m not_ , Robot wants to yell, _I’m coming to get you out_ , but Elliot needs to keep control, Elliot needs to think he’s in charge here.

“You don’t want me to have to worry about you,” Tyrell continues, and oh, is he _flirting?_ Seriously?

“I need to know what’s going on,” Elliot says, oblivious.

“It’s not safe. I wish it were,” Tyrell sighs. “Oh, how I wish. How I wish.”

His voice is all Robot can focus on.

“I think about you a lot, Elliot,” Tyrell whispers. “I think about that night when we became gods.”

And Tyrell is still just as crazy as before but _damn_ if he doesn’t know how to sweet-talk.

“That night…” Elliot says. “I want to know what happened.”

And Robot is still thinking about Tyrell, Tyrell, but _fuck_ , Elliot is asking too much and Robot has to focus, damn it.

“Tell me what happened,” Elliot says, desperate, and Robot knows this is the end of his generosity.

Robot slams down the receiver, cutting the call.

Elliot is, to say it nicely, pissed, but Robot knows how to turn this situation—spiraling as it is—to his advantage.

He leans into Elliot’s already-existing paranoia—has him think, even if just for a second, that Tyrell isn’t real. That’ll be sure to keep him occupied, and it’s the best solution Robot could come up with on such short notice.

But then things get even more batshit insane. Tyrell is seemingly forgotten as Elliot gets further entangled with the warden, and to be fair, Robot was partially responsible for that. He’s been going crazy too, locked up in here with nowhere to run or hide or breathe. The small spaces sap his energy, leave him wired and ready to snap at a moment’s notice.

It doesn’t help that Elliot keeps trying to talk about Tyrell, even when they’re both hurt and trying to recover in some fucking basement, courtesy of Ray. Robot’s trying his best—trying to protect Elliot from everything, trying to show him that they don’t have to fight, trying to juggle Stage Two and Tyrell—and Elliot keeps _digging_.

So Robot thinks no one can really blame him for lying to Elliot about Tyrell. If he wants to believe Tyrell’s dead, fine. Whatever will let him keep those three days to himself.

And that’s another thing, isn’t it—this weird, new desperation to keep all those memories for himself alone. Tyrell, the cabin, the Tolstoy, the Swedish meatballs, the hike, the—

The kisses and everything that followed.

Robot doesn’t read too much into it, even though he has, all things considered, loads of time to do so in prison. Deconstructing any of that will only lead to more complications, more things to handle.

And speaking of things to handle, getting out of prison only adds to their growing list of problems. It all builds, and Robot can barely manage Elliot and the hack when Tyrell decides to make a reappearance.

Well. The Dark Army probably decided for him, but _damn_ is it good to see him again, even hidden back in Elliot’s mind.

“We need to be careful now,” Tyrell says, and everything in Robot sighs.

But all good things, as they say, come to an end.

Some of those endings feature bullets.

Some of those endings have Tyrell Wellick holding a gun, tears sparkling in his eyes, and Elliot, confused and in pain and asking Robot with his eyes _why?_

And Robot doesn’t have an answer. Not for him.

[[[]]]

Mr. Robot is lucky that he’s the one to wake up.

Angela is sitting next to him, prim and proper, and oh, this is interesting. He had a feeling she’d been getting more and more involved, but now he can see it on her face in the dim fluorescent light. The steel in her gaze, the new pole in her spine.

Angela’s in with the Dark Army now, there’s no question.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, tone flat.

“Like a bunch of roses,” Robot laughs, but it quickly dies. The pain in his chest is sharp and aching all at once, knocking the breath right out of him.

Angela raises an eyebrow. “So it’s you.”

Robot grins. “In the flesh.”

“This hasn’t interrupted our plans,” Angela says, all business. “You’ll continue working on Stage Two. I’ll be there to monitor in case anything goes wrong.”

“Oh, like me getting shot because of myself?” Robot snorts. “Of course.”

Angela glares at him. “You know how dangerous Elliot is to our operation now. You need to keep him out.”

“I’ll do my fucking best,” Robot says. “At night, maybe. That’s when he’ll think he’s asleep.”

Angela nods. “That should work for our location.”

“You’ve gotten awfully cozy with them, huh.” Robot squints. “What did they tell you?”

Angela’s expression shutters even further, betraying nothing. “You’ll be moved to my apartment until you’re recovered. In the meantime, you need to rest.”

“Rest? Hah!” Robot rolls his eyes. “I need to work. Who gives a shit about me getting shot.”

“I do,” Angela says, and oh, there it is. The chink in the steel, the care Angela holds for Elliot still.

“About me? Or him?” Robot asks.

“Get some sleep,” Angela says, standing up. “We’ll talk more when you’re awake again.”

Robot looks past her into the shadows, and there’s… someone sitting out there. Someone hunched over.

“Who is that?” Robot asks, peering into the dark.

Angela just smiles at him, thin, and walks away, pausing beside the seated figure.

“He has to rest,” she says. “You need to go.”

“What?” the figure asks, and Robot knows in an instant who it is.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Angela says.

“No, you don’t understand,” Tyrell says, voice choked with what must be tears. “I need to talk to him—”

“Tyrell. He needs _time_ ,” Angela interrupts, and from the sharp edge to her words Robot knows she’s figured them out. Tyrell probably hasn’t been subtle about it, but Robot likes to think he’d kept their… connection to one another quiet.

But Angela’s always picked up on more than most—and an open book like Tyrell just makes that far too easy.

“Okay,” Tyrell whispers, head bowed again. He takes a minute to sigh—maybe runs his hand through his hair—before standing to follow Angela.

They start to walk off, but even with the darkness, Robot can tell that Tyrell turns around to look at him. Just for an instant.

And then they’re gone, leaving Robot to wonder just what the hell he’s gotten himself into now.

[[[]]]

Irving is the first to leave after their initial meet-up.

“You three better handle this,” he says, and then he’s gone up the stairs.

Angela’s the second to go, but she hesitates.

“You coming?” she asks, watching Robot still work away at the terminal.

“Nah, go on,” he says, waving a hand. “I’ll head out in a few.”

“You sure you’ll be okay?” Angela appears next to him, leaning in. “We can’t afford—”

“I know, I know,” Robot says, rolling his eyes. “I can keep control over this for a little while longer, alright? No worries about Elliot. He won’t know a thing.”

Angela nods, but she doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Make sure he doesn’t.”

Then she’s off, too. _Ugh_. She’d been getting harder to deal with. Miss Ice Queen wasn’t the same sweetheart Elliot had grown up with.

Robot turns back to the screen, but he hears the creak of a bedframe somewhere behind him. _Shit_.

If he was being honest, he’d stayed behind to make sure Tyrell was all right. Robot had to, after he’d tried to keep up appearances in front of Irving and Angela. He couldn’t say what he needed to when they were there watching the whole thing, but now, with them gone… all his courage had flown right out the window.

Robot turns around and there’s Tyrell, hunched over on the tiny cot with his face in his hands. _Great._ _He’s crying again._

Robot hates what that does to his chest—twists it, like a hand squeezing a lemon.

“Tyrell?” he tries.

No response. Just sniffles.

Robot sighs, getting up from the terminal. He makes his slow, careful way over, dropping to his knees in front of Tyrell.

“Tyrell. Look at me.”

Tyrell lets out a noise—high-pitched and awful. “Not—not after what I did to you.”

“I thought we’d moved past that,” Robot frowns.

“You expect me to believe what you said?” Tyrell says, tearing his hands away from his face and oh. His eyes are red, swollen with lack of sleep and tears. He looks like a wet balloon, and it would be silly if Robot didn’t know he’d done this to him.

“You know I had to say what they wanted to hear,” Robot explains. “No one knows about us.”

Tyrell barks out a hoarse laugh. “Us? What ‘us’? You don’t care about me.”

Robot stops short. “I…”

“You abandoned me at the cabin. You’re not even here half the time,” Tyrell continues. “How do I even know you’re _you_? I just…”

He closes his eyes, and Robot feels something in his chest twinge again.

“I’m so confused,” Tyrell finally whispers.

Robot takes a breath. He knows this is it—the moment where he can keep stringing Tyrell along, messing with his easy devotion and reassuring him with false promises.

Or he can try something new. Something Robot has been afraid of from the start, something he’s denied himself the chance to even think.

“Tyrell,” he says. “This… this isn’t easy for me. Or you. I get that.”

He puts a gentle hand on Tyrell’s knee. Tyrell doesn’t open his eyes, but he breathes in, sharp.

“I’m not always myself,” Robot says. “But with you… I always find a way back. And that _means_ something.”

“What?” Tyrell asks, voice so soft he can barely hear it.

Robot smiles, small, even though he knows Tyrell can’t see it. “Means I care about you. A lot more than I thought.”

Tyrell chokes out a sob again, and what’s left of Robot’s resolve breaks in two.

“Lemme show you,” he says, reaching up. His hand winds its way up Tyrell’s face, eventually burying itself in his hair, his stupidly soft hair. It feels like a greeting—like saying hello for the first time in a while.

Tyrell just breathes, his eyes still stubbornly closed.

“Hey there, dollface,” Robot murmurs, stroking his fingers through Tyrell’s hair.

Tyrell shudders under his hand, his eyelids fluttering.

“Shh,” Robot whispers. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

“Is it really you?” Tyrell asks, and it kills Robot that he has to ask.

“It’s me. Your _röd skottkärra_ ,” Robot says. “…I probably mispronounced that, huh?”

Tyrell finally, finally smiles, just a bit, opening his eyes at _last_ , and Mr. Robot didn’t even know he had a heart until now. “No, that was good. You’re getting better.”

“I should hope so, _skitstövel_ ,” Robot smirks. “Did I get that one right, too? I looked it up just for you.”

“I liked it better when you called me dollface,” Tyrell laughs, but it’s quiet, still filled with tears.

“C’mere,” Robot says, and then he’s pulling Tyrell, dragging him in, and he meets Tyrell’s lips with his own, and they don’t talk for a while, not after that.

[[[]]]

Mr. Robot reluctantly drags himself away from a sleeping Tyrell later, much later. They hadn’t really done anything—crying and making out seemed to have taken all the wind out of Tyrell’s sails—but Robot still feels the urge to stay almost overwhelming him.

But he knows this operation is delicate—even more so now that he’s cut himself off from Elliot so abruptly. Angela may be blunt, but she’s right about that much. They need to tread carefully.

And as Robot walks back to Elliot’s apartment, the car horns and sirens still wailing this late at night, he comes to the conclusion that Tyrell isn’t going to help.

This thing with Tyrell, this—skip in Robot’s chest, the one he can’t really stop—has been more trouble than it’s worth. It was supposed to be an easy solution, but now Tyrell has gone all soft on him. Weepy and pliable and strangely lovely.

It’s dangerous. That’s what Angela would say, and it’s what Elliot would say, and it’s what Robot needs to say.

Because when a plan no longer works, you move on. You try a new plan. You recalibrate, you abandon the thing that wasn’t working.

Robot closes the door of the apartment behind him and collapses into bed, sleep overwhelming him. But before he drifts off, his mind presents a clear, simple goal:

Drop Tyrell before this all goes up in flames.

[[[]]]

The moment Mr. Robot arrives back in the basement, he knows everything’s about to fall apart around him.

It’s something about the way Angela is holding herself against the wall, stiff and eyes darting between Robot entering the room and Tyrell sitting at the monitor. It’s something about the way Tyrell’s shoulders are hunched too far, the lines of muscles there rigid underneath his shirt.

It’s something about how no one says anything when Robot walks in.

“So,” Robot says, spreading his hands, “what’s the game plan for tonight, conspirators?”

Angela at least rolls her eyes at that, but Tyrell doesn’t even move.

“Come on,” Robot sighs. “Can someone talk to me here? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I really don’t appreciate being left out of the loop—”

“You’re the one being left out?” Tyrell says, and it’s low, quiet.

Robot snorts. “Well, finally someone decides to talk—”

“Then what’s the deal with the shipping delays, hm?” Tyrell says, turning around in the chair. His face is impassive—the mask clasped on, no hint of tears or anger underneath.

“What are you talking—”

“The paper records are being rerouted,” Angela steps in. “We don’t know who’s doing it, but it’s causing some significant setbacks.”

“Significant?” Tyrell laughs, but it’s harsh. “I want to know why it seems like we’re always talking two steps forward and three steps back.”

He looks at Robot. “Do you want to explain this? Since you’re the _architect?_ ”

Robot squints. “What’s got your panties in a twist?”

Tyrell stands up, forcing the chair backward in one smooth motion to crash against the desk. “You’re supposed to have thought of everything, and now there’s an obstacle in our way that none of us predicted. Aren’t you supposed to be keeping an eye on things at E Corp?”

“Woah, woah.” Robot holds up his hands. “Slow down, sweetheart. I can only do so much—”

“Why? Because of _him?_ ” Tyrell snarls. “This other you I’ve heard so much about? Seems like an easy explanation to me.”

Robot goes still. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean.”

“Angela told me all about him,” Tyrell gestures to her, “but if I’m being honest, it just seems like you’re fucking with us.”

Robot takes a step toward him, hands curling into fists. “Angela? You want to tell me why the hell he’s gotten so _smart_ all of a sudden?”

Angela pushes off the wall, taking careful steps toward them. “This argument is going to lead us nowhere. It doesn’t matter how the shipping delays happened—we just need to stop them.”

“She’s right,” Robot says, but his eyes are still fixed on Tyrell.

Tyrell sniffs. “You’re avoiding the subject again. Just tell me.”

“Tell you what? That I’ve been lying to you? Is that what you want?” Robot turns, laughing hoarsely. “Are you hearing this, Angela?”

“Well, have you?” Tyrell says, and it’s so earnest that it makes Robot laugh again.

“Why the fuck do you even have to ask that,” Robot says, shaking his head. “You don’t trust me?”

And the air in the room stills, right before Tyrell opens his mouth: “How can I?”

Robot blinks.

“If you really are two different people,” Tyrell says, voice so quiet, “then how am I supposed to know any of this is real? Any of what we’ve shared?”

Robot glances over at Angela, but she doesn’t even flinch.

“Just talk to me,” Tyrell pleads. “Because I don’t know who we are anymore.”

“You want me to tell you the truth?” Robot says. And this is it, this is what his goal was but now that it’s here, it feels so wrong and he doesn’t want to know why it does.

Tyrell nods, once. His face is still closed off, but Robot knows exactly how to twist that, how to rip the mask off with finality and he hates that everything around him is forcing him to do so.

“Fine. If you want to hear it so badly,” Robot scoffs, leaning into it. “What did you want me to tell you, huh? That I was _in love_ with you?”

Angela glances over at that, and Tyrell stops breathing so harshly. There’s no sound in the room at all save for Robot, unable to stop talking now that the floodgates have been forced open.

“It was easy, really,” Robot says, picking up steam as he talks. “Telling you I cared, making you think there was more to this. Sure, the sex was nice, thanks, but the rest? I could do without all the sappy bullshit.”

And now Tyrell’s eyes are glistening in the low light, and even Angela looks surprised, her lips parted.

“This didn’t mean anything,” Mr. Robot says, surprised at how harsh it feels. “You and me? _Us_? I was just using you, Wellick. Nothing more than a card in my hand.”

“For what?” Tyrell asks, so quiet it breaks.

Robot laughs, and there is nothing but air behind it. “For nothing. There was no reason. No grand design. We’re not gods, we never were.”

Tyrell just stands there, taking it, and Robot wants to scream, wants to shake him, wants him to convince Robot to stop but he does nothing.

Robot storms right up to him, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“You’re just a liability,” Robot spits. “A tool.”

Tyrell takes a breath, and tears run down his face, so fast you could miss them.

“Now sit the fuck down,” Robot says, “and fix this.”

And if Tyrell didn’t do what Robot asked, even if for a moment, Robot would take it all back—would stop yelling, would stop lying through his teeth and just hold Tyrell, just for a moment longer.

But Tyrell follows orders. And he sits back down.

And they get back to work.


	5. Chapter 5

_“I once thought you to be a god. I loved you.”_

The words ring in Robot’s ears for weeks, echoing down to his bones, following him through frustration and fighting and tragedy and the news that Tyrell is in jail, and then abruptly the news that Tyrell has been released.

And then just as abruptly he’s in Tyrell’s house, splayed on the floor under him and angry and confused and heart thudding, thudding in his chest.

Even after Price leaves, after Tyrell breaks out the vodka and turns into a hopeless mess, Robot can still feel the treacherous tilt.

“The FBI,” Tyrell chokes out. “The Dark Army has a man on the inside.”

Robot leans back. “And how do you know that?”

“He… spoke to me,” Tyrell says, eyeing the bottle of vodka. “While I was being held there.”

“Why? About the plan?”

Tyrell takes another swig. “…I don’t want to talk about this.”

Robot scoffs. “You just told me the Dark Army owns the FBI, and now you don’t wanna give me any of the details? How am I supposed to believe you?”

Tyrell nearly slams the bottle down, glaring at Robot. “What? You don’t _trust me?”_

Robot goes completely still. “Fuck off.”

Tyrell snorts, taking a drink. “Yeah, tried that already.”

Robot swipes the bottle out of his hand, sending it spinning, shattering on the ground. Tyrell stares down at it, barely moving.

“ _Now_ will you fucking talk to me?” Robot yells.

Tyrell keeps his face down, hidden. “He told me about my wife. My son. Told me I was nothing. Had nothing.”

Tyrell looks up, meeting Robot’s eyes. “And then you came into my home and _disgraced_ them.”

Robot gets off the stool, taking a step around the counter. “I just told you what you needed to hear.”

Tyrell clenches his fists. “You said my wife died in the streets—”

“Because she did!” Robot throws up his hands. “Just because this position means nothing to them doesn’t make it nothing to us. You need to _fight_ for that.”

Tyrell closes his eyes. “Stop talking.”

“I won’t shut up until you show me you’re prepared to take them down,” Robot says. “Drinking and crying about it won’t do you any good.”

Robot watches as Tyrell carefully pulls the blue gloves back out of his pocket.

“You need to get your fight back,” Robot says, getting quieter. “And I can show you how.”

There’s a dull snap as Tyrell pulls the second glove on.

“Let’s work together again, huh?” Robot smirks.

“Together?” Tyrell says, finally opening his eyes. “Or am I your puppet too?”

Robot can’t get a word in once Tyrell punches him again, a roundhouse to the jaw that sends him back onto the floor. It’s not long before Tyrell is on top of him, one hand pinning Robot’s arms over his head and the other pulled back for a second hit.

Robot just stares as Tyrell punches him again, barely feeling it. Robot doesn’t even move—he watches Tyrell as his eyes fill with tears, his grip on Robot’s arms loosening. The third punch doesn’t even land.

Tyrell—Tyrell _crumples_ , his hands loosely curled on Robot’s chest, silent sobs starting to wrack through him. He’s muttering something, but it’s breathy and all in Swedish, anyway, and something in Robot… shifts. The thudding in his chest comes back, duller and echoing, now, and he’s still lying on the floor, Tyrell above him.

There’s already too much between them, too much history in too short a time, and Robot keeps _pushing_. Pushing Tyrell too hard that he ends up pushing him away. Dragging Tyrell kicking and screaming through whatever scheme he’s concocted and avoiding the simple truth of the matter.

The easy solution Mr. Robot’s been looking for all along: Tyrell _matters_.

So Robot reaches up, slow, and lays a hand on Tyrell’s cheek. Curls his fingers behind his head and gently pulls Tyrell toward him.

There’s a moment—so many moments—where Tyrell can pull away, where Robot can scramble up and deny all of this. They have the time.

“Tyrell,” Robot whispers, a ghost of a breath.

And then Tyrell’s lips are on Robot’s, and it’s always been too late.

Robot’s hands find their way back into Tyrell’s hair, winding through the stiff gel and upending it. He _tugs_ , knowing what Tyrell likes, and Tyrell pays him back in kind, his hands slipping under Robot’s shirt. The sudden chill startles Robot, and he quickly catches one of Tyrell’s wrists.

“Hey,” Robot says. “Take the fucking gloves off first, hotshot.”

Tyrell nods, dazed, and the gloves are off and on the floor somewhere and Tyrell is back to kissing him, full and furious.

The more Tyrell presses down, the more Robot feels the hardwood floor beneath his back, but it’s hard to care when Tyrell is all over him like this, his hands back under Robot’s shirt with a feverish warmth.

Robot lets go of Tyrell’s hair to grab at his waist, trying to force Tyrell to flip over, let him take control like he knows Tyrell would want.

But Tyrell—Tyrell doesn’t budge. Robot knew there was new muscle underneath Tyrell’s shirt, a definition that wasn’t there before, but this only confirms it.

Robot tries again to move them, and Tyrell pulls back, eyes half-lidded. Robot just stares up at him, hoping he’ll get the message, when Tyrell leans back down, his mouth by Robot’s ear.

“My turn this time, darling,” Tyrell murmurs, and Robot _shivers_.

And then Tyrell’s mouth is on his ear, his cheek, his _neck_ and everything is spiraling way too quickly again but this time it’s _different_ and Robot is trembling.

“Hey,” Robot mumbles, but Tyrell just keeps… holding him, kissing his way so slow down Robot’s neck.

“Stop,” Robot tries again, louder, and Tyrell looks up.

“What’s wrong?” Tyrell asks, and Robot wishes he knew the answer.

He just shakes his head, scrambling away and standing up, feeling off-kilter. He wants—he wants _Tyrell_ , and that’s a terrifying thought and Elliot is still not talking to him and that’s even more terrifying, the continued separation, and Robot just can’t do this. Not like this.

“I can’t,” Robot says, throat closing, choking his words.

He hears Tyrell stand up behind him. “Can I ask why?”

Robot shakes his head, trying to sort out his thoughts but everything is blurring at the edges, and fuck, is he _crying?_ “I just—I can’t do this to Elliot.”

“What does that… mean, exactly?” Tyrell says, stepping around to face Robot. Robot can’t even look at him.

“Just don’t—” Robot can’t breathe, Robot can’t _think_.

“ _Röd skot_ —”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” Robot bursts out, everything shaking. “Don’t—I—”

Tyrell takes a step back.

“I meant everything I said in the basement,” Robot mutters, too harsh and too fast. “So don’t fucking talk to me like that again.”

And he storms out, leaving the front door open behind him, feeling like the ground is imploding under him.

[[[]]]

After the hack—the one that started everything—is undone, after Elliot falls into fitful sleep, Mr. Robot finds himself waking up in Elliot’s apartment. He glances around, uncertain, but Elliot is nowhere to be seen, and the windows outside are still dark.

_Seems like the kid needed a rest._ He checks the time on Elliot’s computer, and it’s only been an hour since everything went down. Robot can feel the lost sleep deep in his bones, a weight dragging his shoulders down, down, down.

But there’s an itch at the back of his mind—the restlessness that’s always there. It’s what makes him get up, adjust his hat, and walk out of the apartment, lungs burning for clearer air, maybe, or clearer thoughts.

He doesn’t realize where he is until he’s standing outside, hand poised above the door handle.

He hesitates, and knocks, instead of barging in. Takes off his hat. Waits.

The footsteps on the other side are slow, and they stop for a while. Robot doesn’t look up at the peephole he knows is in the door. He just hopes the door will swing open, even though he never, ever deserved it.

Robot turns away right as the door opens.

He doesn’t look. He can’t bear it.

“ _R_ _öd skottkärra_ ,” Robot hears, so soft, and it’s so easy to make him look, in the end.

Tyrell’s collar is rumpled. His hair, too. He doesn’t smell like vodka, thank goodness, but his eyes have sunken, lost their usual brightness.

Robot tries to speak, to say anything, even just his name or “hi,” but nothing comes out.

In the end he just barrels right into Tyrell, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his chest.

“ _Goddammit_ ,” is the first thing Robot says. He can already feel tears at the corners of his eyes and why, why is it always profanity he turns to first when there’s a hole in his chest and no clear way to fill it.

But Tyrell—goddammit, Tyrell, the most beautiful bastard Robot has ever known—holds Robot back. Clings to him, even, there in the doorway. Fuck anyone who cares to look.

“I didn’t mean it,” Robot whispers. “I didn’t mean it. Fuck, Tyrell, I didn’t mean any of it.”

Robot feels Tyrell press a kiss to his temple and he _aches_. “I know now. I know.”

“I’m so fucked up,” Robot says, and now he’s crying. “I was so fucking scared.”

“Of what? Me?” Tyrell’s hands stroke up and down Robot’s back, slow and steady.

“Yeah, shit, I don’t know. Me and you. Us.”

And he thinks Tyrell is crying now, too, his head buried in Robot’s hair. “Please don’t be afraid of me. Please.”

“I just—” Robot sniffs, tries to compose himself. “I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

Another kiss, in his hair. “Come inside.”

And Robot follows Tyrell in, because what else can he do?

[[[]]]

He explains everything over a glass of whiskey Tyrell pours for him, rambling about the barn and the Dark Army and the hack and Elliot. It feels like something has cracked inside him, something permanent, and Tyrell has managed to slip through and stay there, lodged, like a grain of sand.

“And that’s… that’s everything,” Robot says, hand clutching at the glass, half-full.

Tyrell nods, leaning up against the counter, a careful distance away. “What about…”

And Tyrell doesn’t need to finish that sentence because Robot knows it ends with _us_.

“I don’t know,” Robot says, feeling the honesty well up in his throat. “I wish I did.”

Tyrell nods again, but he sinks into himself. Robot saw it earlier, but it’s even more apparent now: the bend to his shoulders, the hollows of his eyes and cheeks. The position at E Corp is taking everything from him, and Robot has taken even more.

So maybe he should give something back.

“Will I see you again?” Tyrell asks.

“I… I want to see you again,” Robot says. The confession tears at that crack in his chest, makes him feel like he’s bleeding.

Tyrell looks up at that, his own expression as raw as Robot feels.

“But I don’t know if—” Robot pauses. “Elliot might not…”

He struggles with the words, knowing he needs to make Tyrell _understand_ , now of all times. And Tyrell waits, looking at Robot like they have all the time in the world to just… talk.

“Just know this,” Robot starts, the wave of words bringing him under. “Know this, please, Tyrell. I’m a fucking idiot, I mess with your feelings and I mess with my own and I’m so fucked up but please, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” Tyrell says, hoarse, and that alone keeps Robot afloat.

“I think… I think I might…” Robot says. _Who knew this would be this hard to say?_ These words, the ones everyone makes it seem are easy to use and repeat and yell, even, are caught up in his heart, bundled and broken and confusing, and Tyrell’s waiting, he’s _waiting_.

“Fuck,” Robot says, ripping his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes. “I can’t do this feelings shit.”

“I love you,” Tyrell says, quiet, and _there_ , there it is, it’s so easy, how does he do it?

Mr. Robot takes a breath, and then the words spill from him, the sand and the ocean crashing out to the floor beneath them:

“I think I might love you and that scares me so fucking much because I can’t be honest, ever, and you _know_ that, and I’m scared you don’t believe me and I’m scared I won’t ever get a chance to say it again.”

He takes another breath, and for once it feels _clear_. Shaky, but clear.

And Tyrell reaches slow, so slow, across the counter to take Robot’s hand.

Robot closes his eyes. “So… so even if I’m not here, just… please hold onto that, Tyrell. Please try.”

There’s silence, then, but there’s also Tyrell’s hand on top of Robot’s, and then he turns his hand and there’s just the two of them, hands clasped together, Tyrell’s thumb moving in small, smaller circles.

Tyrell doesn’t answer, in the end, but he presses a kiss to Robot’s knuckles, and Robot opens his eyes, and that, as they say, is that.

[[[]]]

Mr. Robot gets back to Elliot’s apartment late, and Elliot is sitting on the couch, waiting for him.

He hesitates for a moment, but shuts the door behind him, trying to maintain whatever normalcy they have. “Hey, kiddo—”

Elliot stands up. “Where were you.”

Robot sighs. “I was just—”

“And don’t make up any excuses,” Elliot interrupts. “We’re working together now, and that means we have to trust each other. So just… tell me.”

Robot looks at Elliot, bundled in his hoodie, hands stuffed in his pocket, and he can’t lie to him.

“I was at Tyrell’s,” Robot mutters.

Elliot looks up, sharp. “Why?”

“I had to make sure he was still on our side,” Robot says, skirting the edges of the truth as carefully as he can.

Elliot nods. “It’s not a good idea to be seen with him, though.”

Robot rolls his eyes. “You don’t think I know that?”

“Just—be careful,” Elliot says. “We’ll have to stay away from him for a while to keep our cover.”

Robot nods, but the crack in his heart splinters, just a bit.

Elliot frowns at him. “You understand that, right?”

“Of fucking course I do,” Robot scoffs. “Why would I want to spend more time with that Swedish numbskull?”

Elliot just keeps looking at him. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“What? Didn’t you just say we’re supposed to be working together?” Robot says. “I’m being _honest_ , kiddo. I’m getting used to this thing, same as you.”

Elliot sighs. “Sorry. I’m just… paranoid.”

He sinks back into the couch, but Robot remains standing, the fear that Elliot will _know_ still twitching along the back of his mind.

“We just can’t go behind each other’s backs anymore,” Elliot says. “So if there’s something or someone you want to tell me about, now’s the time.”

Robot takes a moment, fidgeting with the brim of his hat, and prepares himself to deliver the last piece of truth Elliot needs to hear. The thing that keeps drawing Tyrell back to them both, the heart Robot didn’t know he could have.

But Elliot has gotten everything—taken everything for himself and run with it, and Robot has stepped in when he felt it was best. Tried to balance it all, like he always does.

And Robot, at his core, _wants_. He wants something buried so deep that Elliot has only barely noticed it, never even bothered to decipher what it all meant, and at this point, with Elliot finally asking about it, Robot makes the poorest decision.

“No. You’re all caught up,” Mr. Robot says.

Because Tyrell? Tyrell is _his_.


	6. Chapter 6

Months go by without Mr. Robot noticing, the focus Elliot has on taking down Whiterose driving every day forward faster than he can blink. October turns to November turns to the holiday fuckin’ season, bells ringing and carolers flouncing and everyone around them slipping further and further away.

In between all of that—the research and the sleepless nights and the news about Angela—Robot finally gets the chance to sneak away, right as the first of December slides onto the calendar.

Elliot has stayed in control this past while, but Robot is at least allowed to hang around as much as he likes now. They’re a team, and Robot wouldn’t give that up for the world, but the thought of Tyrell is still poking at the back of his mind.

“Hey, kiddo,” Robot says, patting Elliot on the shoulder. They’re holed up in their Allsafe hideout and Elliot has been at the computer all day, trying to pinpoint their next target’s weakness.

“What?” Elliot says, blunt as ever. He’s lost so much since Angela, but the main thing Robot misses is his willingness to feel… anything.

“Mind if I roll out for a bit? I might check in on our contact in E Corp. See if he has any info for us.”

“Tyrell?” Elliot asks. He doesn’t seem suspicious, so Robot takes it as a win.

“Yeah, why not,” Robot shrugs. “I did say he could come in handy.”

Elliot huffs. “Fine.”

“And why don’t you take a break,” Robot suggests, pulling on his jacket. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

“We need to get this done by the end of the month,” Elliot says, making no move to leave.

Robot stops behind him. “Elliot. I’m just going to talk to the guy, and while I’m doing that, you can get some rest.”

Elliot turns, eyeing Robot. “You hiding something again?”

Robot snorts. “Why would I? I just want you in tip-top shape, that’s all.”

Elliot frowns, but the growing bags under his eyes win out, in the end. “Alright. If it’ll make you happy.”

Robot grins. “See you later, then?”

Elliot gives a half-wave before walking off somewhere deep in the headspace, and Robot takes that as his cue to leave.

It’s not that he’s keeping this from Elliot—really. He just didn’t take his chance to say anything about it earlier, and now he’s worried Tyrell will have… well. He doesn’t know _what_ Tyrell has done these past few months.

Sure, he’s been around on the news, delivering holiday greetings in taxi cabs and on billboards, but there’s been no contact otherwise.

It’s not for lack of trying on Robot’s part, either. It’s just Elliot’s pure, cold determination that’s kept Robot away. Angela’s death has hung around them, and though Robot has taken his own time to grieve, Elliot hasn’t and it’s destroying them both.

And he keeps trying to get through, keeps trying to reach out to Elliot and give him space to breathe, but the more he tries the further away Elliot gets, building walls upon walls to keep everyone—especially Darlene—out.

So Robot’ll take his wins—however small—where he can get them, and he arrives outside Tyrell’s door, hoping beyond hope that he’s home. This CTO position seems like it’s been taking up all of his time, despite how false it really is.

Robot knocks anyway, and there’s nothing for a while. A long while, longer than anyone would have stood at the door, but Robot has his moments of patience.

And it’s rewarded, thankfully, when the door opens. Tyrell is—

“Jesus,” Robot says, looking Tyrell up and down. “The fuck happened to you?”

Tyrell barks out a laugh. “Where the hell have you been, _kuksugare_.”

Even if it’s in Swedish it still stings, based on Tyrell’s venomous expression. His shirt is a mess, rumpled and pulled half out of where it was tucked into his pants, and there’s a bottle dangling loosely from his hand.

“You still getting drunk alone in your house?” Robot asks.

“No one to get drunk with. _Dra åt skogen_ ,” Tyrell says, waving the bottle in his hand around. “ _Jag vill inte se dig igen.”_

“If all you’re going to do is yell Swedish at me, then I’m leaving,” Robot huffs, taking a step away from the door.

“Fine,” Tyrell spits. “ _Fan ta dig,_ _röd skottkärra!_ ”

Robot goes still at the familiar name—the one he couldn’t forget if he tried.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re saying,” Robot says, low and harsh, “but you can fuck right off with your nicknames and shove them so far up your ass they never come out of your mouth again.”

Tyrell sniffs. “I don’t need you. I don’t. I… _förlåt mig, jag är ledsen_ , I… _shit_.”

And the jumble of words coming out of Tyrell’s mouth isn’t what pulls Robot back in, in the end. It’s the way Tyrell droops the second he seems like he’s leaving—the curl of his fingers on the bottle, the sweat beading at his hairline. Tyrell is the inevitability Robot just can't seem to escape.

Robot comes back. “Hey. You gonna drink the rest of that by yourself?”

Tyrell looks up, and finally, there’s a spark somewhere in there. “I’ll pour you a glass.”

[[[]]]

Three glasses later and Robot is singing at the top of his lungs in Tyrell’s kitchen.

“WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO,” Robot belts, spinning around. At some point Tyrell had turned on a speaker and set up a playlist—something “romantic”, if Robot’s remembering correctly.

Tyrell’s laughing, sitting at the counter. He’d only had one more glass, and he seemed to have sobered up quite a bit. Lost some of that melancholy hanging on him like a cloud.

Robot is feeling pretty good himself. He always likes to think he has a high tolerance, but alcohol catches up quick on him, leaving him giddy and loose.

“C’mon, dollface, don’t you know the words?” Robot asks, lightly punching Tyrell’s arm.

“Not to this, no,” Tyrell says, smiling.

“Then what _do_ you know the words to?” Robot asks.

Tyrell doesn’t answer for a moment, laughing to himself.

“Sweetheart, I don’t have all night for you to finish up this foreplay,” Robot says, throwing his arms out. “Just tell me! Put the song on! I don’t give a shit!”

“Okay, okay,” Tyrell says, still chuckling. “Let me…”

He gets up and fiddles with his phone for a moment, and soon enough Tina Turner is replaced by something… much softer.

“Huh,” Robot says, quiet, recognizing the tune in an instant. How could he not?

“What?” Tyrell asks, turning.

“It’s just…” Robot looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s from an old favorite movie. That’s all.”

“Oh, is that it?” Tyrell says, and then he’s close, so close.

Robot glances up at him, and it’s like seeing stars for the first time.

Tyrell’s hands slide around his waist, pulling him in, and Robot, coming back to Earth, puts his own hands on Tyrell’s shoulders.

Tyrell leans the side of his head against Robot’s, and then they start to sway, their feet stepping in time to the music.

Robot closes his eyes and leans into Tyrell, letting the song wash over him. They’ve been closer than this before but this feels… more intimate, somehow, their hands warm against each other, Tyrell’s breath by his ear.

And then Tyrell starts to _sing_.

“ _Earth angel, earth angel_ …” he murmurs. “ _The one I adore_ …”

Robot’s heart clenches painfully in his chest.

“ _Love you forever, and ever more_ …”

“ _I’m just a fool_ ,” Robot sings back, voice quiet and rough and unpracticed. “ _A fool in love with you_ …”

Tyrell’s hands draw him even closer, and now they’re just wrapped around each other, swaying back and forth like they’re caught in a breeze.

It’s the happiest Robot has felt in a long, long time.

He wants to tell Tyrell that—to explain, to be honest, to spill his heart and damn the consequences—but as he pulls back, Tyrell looks back at him and there’s no time for words.

Robot kisses him, and Tyrell kisses him back, and the music plays on.

[[[]]]

Tyrell makes his grand reappearance weeks later, as he’s shown a tendency to do over the past year.

_Jesus, has it only been a year?_ A year for Elliot’s life to spiral out of control, a year for them to find the top 1% of the 1%, a year from meeting Tyrell.

And speaking of, Tyrell opens his big mouth within seconds in Elliot’s apartment and lands them all in the middle of a shitstorm. Well, more like a snowstorm, really, with the three of them wandering around the woods with no direction, no hope.

Elliot’s frustration reaches a peak—“I can’t deal with this shit anymore”—and Robot does his best to keep quiet. To say nothing about his relationship with Tyrell, even now.

All he can do is sit by Tyrell. Try to let him know, even if just for the briefest of moments, that he does care, even if Elliot doesn’t.

“C’mon,” he says, almost reaching over but stopping himself before Elliot can see. “You stay out here alone, you can be sure it’s game over. You’re better than this.”

“Yeah,” Tyrell says, tears making his voice crack. “Maybe I was. But not anymore.”

“I’m going!” Elliot yells from down the path, and then it all dissolves, Elliot storming away while Robot continues to sit by Tyrell.

“You can’t see the truth! That it’s over!” Tyrell yells, and Robot thinks, _What if that’s what they wanted all along? Not to be found._

And Elliot comes back, not really knowing why, but Robot can feel the echo of his confusion, reflected in his own pounding heart, his own muddled emotions.

They walk together, all three of them, Robot hanging as close to Tyrell as he can, but the second the van appears they separate, and all Robot can think is _no, I can’t let him go alone, I can’t_ , but he does.

And then there are shots. One two.

Three four. Five.

“Tyrell? You okay?” Elliot asks, and Robot knows the answer before Tyrell even speaks.

“I’m okay,” Tyrell says, voice already so weak, and _fuck, no, no, no._

“Jesus Christ,” Robot breathes, and he can barely think, barely move because Tyrell is hurt, Tyrell is—

“We can’t just leave him here,” he hears himself say.

“Gotta get you to a hospital, man,” Elliot says, the swirl of anger and desperation and fear churning through Robot reflecting back to Elliot, confusing him further, scrambling them both.

“No, no hospital,” Tyrell says, but _no, he can’t say that, fuck, he needs_ —

“The Dark Army will find me,” Tyrell continues. “They’ll find you.”

And Robot doesn’t give a _shit_ about the Dark Army but Elliot is still in control, Elliot is—

“No, no, we gotta keep moving, man,” Elliot says, blinking down at the wound in Tyrell’s side. “We’ll find someplace that can help you.”

_Elliot’s right, Elliot knows what to do, Tyrell will be fine, if we_ —

“No. I’m done,” Tyrell says, taking a step closer.

_What? No, no, he can’t say that, he can’t just—_

“Burn the van and all the evidence,” Tyrell murmurs, pressing the lighter into Elliot’s hands. “Make sure you take care of Whiterose.”

_I can’t do this, I can’t do this without_ him—

“Okay?” Tyrell says, soft as the wind.

And he starts to walk, leaving them both behind, and _I can’t move, I can’t move, what’s going on?_

“Tyrell,” Elliot calls out. “I can’t let you die.”

Tyrell turns back, just for a moment, and _I need him, I need him, I need him_ —

“I’m just gonna go for a walk.”

And Mr. Robot sees it—sees it all happening, sees Tyrell walking away into the woods, vanishing like so much smoke in the moonlight.

And the crack in his chest splits wide open.

And Elliot burns the van.

And Mr. Robot vanishes.

[[[]]]

There’s sand between Robot’s toes, sticking there as he walks down the beach. He squints out at the ocean, wishing he had his sunglasses with him.

He hears soft steps behind him, and then: “Looking for these?”

Robot turns around, and there’s Tyrell, holding out a pair of sunglasses.

“Yeah,” Robot says. “Thanks.”

Tyrell just smiles at him. He’s out of the usual suit—he’s wearing some sort of loose button-up, paired with pastel shorts. It’s still professional, somehow, but Robot likes the more casual look on him.

“That suits you,” Robot says, gesturing.

“I’m glad you like it,” Tyrell says, and then he’s looking over his shoulder, back down the beach.

“What are you looking for?” Robot asks, glancing past him.

Tyrell turns back. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

The words echo, dully, like they’re familiar, but they don’t land quite right.

“Sure,” Robot says, and the two of them walk the way back, a Ferris wheel spinning in the distance.

They’re at the boardwalk soon enough, and Tyrell looks up at the nearest roller coaster.

“You up for a challenge?” he asks.

“By all means,” Robot grins, and they board the coaster together, and Tyrell’s hand finds Robot’s in the car. The ride is fast, breathless, and Robot lets out a _whoop_ as they coast down the first hill, and Tyrell’s hand tightens on his.

They leave the ride feeling weightless.

“I could use a hot dog after that,” Robot laughs, glancing down the boardwalk to Nathan’s.

Tyrell grabs his hand again, twining their fingers together, and they get a hot dog each, letting go of one another only to eat. Tyrell manages to spill ketchup _and_ mustard on his shirt, and Robot makes fun of him until Tyrell’s pouts turn into low chuckles.

They make it back to the Wonder Wheel, and it’s easy enough to get in a car—there’s no line.

Robot sits next to Tyrell, not bothering to sit across from him, and leans into his side, his head on Tyrell’s shoulder. Coney Island sinks away beneath them, the other rides becoming thin spiderwebs, the sand just a distant sweep.

Tyrell’s holding his hand again. “Do you miss it?”

Robot frowns. “What?”

Tyrell looks down at the beach, his expression unreadable. “The world out there.”

Robot shrugs. “I know how to get back. I’m just taking some time off.”

“Why?”

Robot sighs. “What’s got you so nosy all of a sudden? Aren’t we supposed to be on a date right now?”

Tyrell strokes the back of Robot’s hand with his thumb. “Yes, but…”

Robot closes his eyes, tight. “Please. Just let it last a little longer.”

He doesn’t have to look to know Tyrell has tears running down his face. “You have to go, Mr. Robot.”

“Don’t call me that,” Robot whispers. “Call me what you used to.”

“I’m just a part of this world, _röd skottkärra,_ ” Tyrell says. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“But I wanted to hear it!” Robot yells, ripping himself away from Tyrell. Their car is stopped at the top of the Wonder Wheel, and it sways with Robot’s movements, almost dangerous.

The whole world is spread out beneath them, and Tyrell is just looking at him, waiting.

Robot can’t bear it.

He buries his face in his hands. “I… I _lost_ you. But you’re still _here_.”

“It’s not real,” Tyrell murmurs. “It can’t be. You have to move on.”

Robot sobs, everything in him aching, aching. “I can’t leave you.”

Tyrell smiles, sadly, and Robot knows what he’s going to say before he does. “You already did.”

And the dream dissolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m just gonna go for a walk.”

Mr. Robot sees it—sees it all happening, everything, the split and the ache and the grief and the weight of Tyrell’s blood on his hands flickering behind his eyes in an instant.

And what he knows, knows like he knows who he is and who Tyrell is to him, is that he can’t let any of that happen.

And Mr. Robot opens his eyes and _runs_.

Tyrell hasn’t gotten that far—he’s barely stumbled two steps along the path when Robot is in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

Elliot, far behind him, is blinking rapidly, and Robot knows he doesn’t have much time but he’s taking it, he has to.

Robot cups Tyrell’s face in his hands, keeping him steady.

“Tyrell,” he says. “Tyrell, look at me. I am not leaving you here.”

“No, you need to go,” Tyrell sobs. “I need to do this for you.”

“You need to fucking _stay_ for me! Fuck, Tyrell, I—”

And Elliot is watching far behind them, Elliot is realizing everything about Tyrell, the truth of Robot’s heart on display for all to see but it doesn’t matter anymore. _Tyrell matters_.

“I love you,” Robot cries. “Goddammit, I love you, I love you, and you are going to get the fuck out of these woods with me tonight. You _are_.”

Tyrell—eyes filled with tears, Tyrell, mouth parted in a gasp or a sigh, Tyrell, still and pale and _breathing_ , impossibly so—clutches Robot back. Wraps a hand around his arm and squeezes for dear life.

“Then—okay. I will,” Tyrell says.

Robot frantically yanks off his coat, pressing it to Tyrell’s wound to stop what he can. “There should be someone coming, we just need to buy you some more time—”

“For you,” Tyrell whispers, wavering, “I’d do anything.”

“Fuck—” Robot’s voice breaks, sobs threatening to tear him in half. “Elliot, call someone.”

Elliot hasn’t moved from his spot behind them.

“ _Elliot!_ ” Robot screams, and that gets him to move, yanking his phone out of his pocket.

“Okay, okay,” Elliot says, rapidly walking over to Tyrell and typing fast. “D—Darlene should be here in a few minutes, we just have to—”

“—stop the blood, I know, I know,” Robot mutters, pressing hard against the wound.

Tyrell winces, but he stays standing, tightening his grip on Robot’s arm.

“We need to—shit, are you supposed to get on the ground?” Robot asks.

“I think so,” Elliot says, hovering just over Robot’s shoulder. “Jesus, that doesn’t look good—”

“Okay, fine, c’mon, Tyrell,” Robot says, pulling him gently along toward the edge of the road. “We can—we can hole up here, get you settled, okay?”

Tyrell stumbles after him, but Robot thinks he sees him nod.

“Tyrell, I need you to talk, okay?” Robot says, leading Tyrell to sit on the ground. “Say anything, I don’t care what.”

“I’m—I’m here,” Tyrell mumbles.

“Okay, good,” Robot says. “Now, uh—lean back and we’ll wait for Darlene, okay? She’s on her way.”

“Yeah,” Tyrell says, but his voice is so _faint_.

“Hey, stay with me,” Robot says, desperation lacing his words. He keeps one hand on his jacket, pressed hard against Tyrell’s wound, but the other finds one of Tyrell’s hands and holds on tight.

“I am,” Tyrell murmurs.

“Mr. Robot—” Elliot starts.

“Kiddo, _please_ ,” Robot says. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise.”

He looks up at Elliot from his crouched stance over Tyrell, and Elliot looks just—so scared. So confused.

“I’m sorry,” Robot whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Elliot nods, but it’s too fast, too abrupt. _Fuck_.

And Tyrell’s grip is getting weaker in his grasp.

“Tyrell! Talk to me!” Robot says, turning back.

“I’m…” Tyrell’s voice dissolves into mumbles, something that’s probably in Swedish.

“Fucking stay _alive_ , you idiot!” Robot yells, letting go of his hand to shake his arm, his face.

Tyrell’s eyes open a little further, but they’re hazy. “…Trying to.”

Robot clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping beyond anything the car engine in the distance is Darlene. “Just don’t fucking die on me. Not now.”

He looks back at Tyrell, and he thinks he sees the smallest nod.

And thank _whoever_ , the car pulls up on the road, and it’s Darlene.

Robot loads Tyrell in the back, and Elliot burns the van, and at some point they’re on the road and Robot is still holding Tyrell’s hand, gripping it tighter and tighter as they drive.

[[[]]]

They’re lucky, in the end, that Leon is still friends with Elliot. He manages to connect them with some sort of doctor in record time, and they drop Tyrell off before the Virtual Realty hack needs to go down.

It takes all of Elliot’s efforts to drag Robot away from Tyrell—their hands were still wound together, and even now, Robot can feel the echo of Tyrell’s hand in his, the already-fading warmth.

The hack gets done, and Darlene brings them back to the doctor’s building. It just looks like a bunch of apartments from the outside, and that’s what they find inside, too—only difference is a blue curtain that sections off the rest of the apartment from what must be an operating table.

The doctor shoos them out the second they arrive. “He just needs time. Wait.”

Elliot sits in an old armchair while Robot paces. His hat is in his hands, almost bent in half with his worried fingers.

“You want to talk?” Elliot asks.

Robot sighs, bending his hat again. “It was just supposed to be a hack. Same as anything else. No feelings attached.”

“But…”

“Yeah,” Robot says, unable to look at Elliot, even now. “I fucked up.”

Elliot’s silent for a while, running his hand through his hair. Robot stops pacing and just… waits, hoping that he’ll at least get to see Tyrell one more time before Elliot blocks him out permanently.

“I went behind your back,” Robot says, quiet, “and I betrayed your trust. I was so stupid. I didn’t… I was scared of what I felt.”

Elliot doesn’t say a word.

“I shouldn’t have let that control me,” Robot says, bitterness lacing every syllable. “I was reckless and I hurt you, so it’s okay if you can’t forgive me.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Elliot says, soft.

Robot looks up, and Elliot is looking right at him.

“I get it, sort of. I didn’t ask you before I kissed Angela. Or Shayla,” Elliot says. “And we weren’t exactly talking most of the time anyway.”

Robot looks down again, running his fingers along the brim of his hat.

“So… just keep me in the loop from here on,” Elliot says. “He means a lot to you, right?”

Robot nods. “…I love him.”

Elliot sighs, a big whoosh of air. “Shit. Okay.”

Robot looks up. “Okay?”

Elliot shrugs. “We’re a team. I’m not leaving you now.”

And finally, the tension in Robot’s shoulders eases.

He reaches out, tentative, and Elliot reaches the rest of the way back, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m sorry he got shot,” Elliot mumbles into Robot’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry I’m such a shithead,” Robot says, feeling shaky.

Elliot laughs a bit at that. “Yeah, well, me too.”

They let go, and the doctor pokes his head in.

“You can see him.”

[[[]]]

Tyrell doesn’t wake up for a long time. An hour, maybe, but it feels Robot’s been sitting here for days, holding Tyrell’s hand as gently as he can, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

Elliot has stayed with them, too—a silent observer at Robot’s shoulder, the support he didn’t realize he needed.

It’s only when Tyrell stirs—his eyelids flickering—that Elliot pats Robot on the back.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” he says. “If you need me, though, just… let me know.”

Robot nods. “Thank you, Elliot. Really.”

Elliot shrugs, and then he’s gone, and Tyrell is blinking up at Robot, those blue, blue eyes.

“You came back for me,” Tyrell says, a question and an answer in one.

“Of fucking course I did,” Robot says, and his voice breaks right down the middle.

Tyrell squeezes his hand, and that says everything Robot needs to hear: _he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay_.

“You really got me fucked up back there,” Robot says, looking away. “I dunno if you remember any of it—”

“I remember.”

_Shit_. Robot closes his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Tyrell,” Robot whispers. “I put you through hell and you don’t deserve that. You… you deserve so much better than me.”

“ _Röd skottkärra_ ,” Tyrell says, and that sends a _wave_ through Robot’s chest. “I was yours from the start. I wish I was better for you.”

Robot lets the tears fall, because who cares—the man he loves is _alive_ and _here_ and loves him _back_.

“We’ll work it out,” Robot says.

Tyrell glances away at that. “I… I want to ask you something.”

“What?” Robot blinks.

“Would you wait for me?” Tyrell says, looking back. His eyes are clear, clearer than they’ve ever been.

“Wh—”

“I want to—I want to get better,” Tyrell interrupts. “For you. I want to _be_ better.”

Robot doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And besides,” Tyrell smiles, “don’t you have something you need to finish?”

Robot shakes his head. “Tyrell—”

“Just tell me, honestly. If you’ll wait.”

Mr. Robot has to laugh. “I just dragged your half-dead ass out of the woods. I think I can wait a little longer for you.”

Tyrell blinks, but then he’s laughing too, even if it’s airy and strained. “Okay. Then come find me, when it’s all over, okay?”

Robot’s laughter dies, but he’s still smiling. “Okay, babe.”

Tyrell snorts. “Babe? Really?”

“What? I thought it was nice!”

“We’ll have to talk about this later—”

“Oh, so you can have all the sappy nicknames you want, huh, _darling?_ ”

“Mine are much better than that.”

“ _Red wheelbarrow?_ Really?”

“I thought it was poignant!”

And they laugh, and they kiss, and they keep hold of one another’s hands, even if just for a moment longer.

[[[]]]

So much happens in the span of a couple of days. “So much” is, truly, the understatement of the century.

But at least Elliot—the host—is back in charge again, and Mr. Robot can breathe a little easier, knowing he’s still here, his job finished for now.

Krista’s been helping them all a lot more than Robot expected she would. They’re starting to get better at this whole system thing—communicating with one another, helping each other out. It’s… nice. Robot would never admit that to Krista, but it feels good to talk to Elliot again, and talk to Mastermind now that he knows who he is.

They’ve moved apartments, got something a little nicer and closer to Darlene and Dom. Robot really should have seen _that_ coming, but Dom is good to have around. She’s genuine, and Darlene seems a lot happier with her than without, so Robot approves.

Flipper seems to have taken to the new space well, too. She has grown on Robot, despite his best efforts to avoid getting attached. Elliot really likes her. And Mastermind, of course. Guess that’s one thing they can all agree on.

And the days flow by much easier—they haven’t gotten a job yet, but Elliot’s working on it, and he doesn’t mind the break in the meantime.

He heads out to lunch most days at a little café down the street, and today he’s grabbing some new sandwich they’ve got on the menu. Something with pineapple and turkey. Robot rolls his eyes at that one, but if Elliot wants to try it, that’s his decision.

Elliot heads back out onto the street, crowded with the lunchtime rush, and turns to head back to the apartment when something catches his eye.

Robot sees it, too—the back of someone’s head, ducking into the crowd.

Someone familiar.

Mr. Robot’s taken over and is running past Elliot before he has time to blink, desperately shoving people aside. It can’t be, it’s been months with no word, but maybe—

Robot catches up and grabs the man’s shoulder, spinning him around.

Tyrell Wellick—in a hoodie, of all things—stares at Mr. Robot.

And then his face relaxes into a grin, gentle and full, and Robot finally feels home.

“Elliot,” Tyrell breathes.

“Hi,” Robot says, the crowd around them entirely forgotten.

“I knew you’d find me,” Tyrell says.

Robot smirks. “Don’t I always?”

There’s a moment where Robot wants—so much. But Elliot is standing behind him, lost in the crowd, and there’s something Robot has to do, now.

“I want you to meet someone,” Robot says to Tyrell.

Robot gestures, beckoning to Elliot. He approaches slowly, looking at Tyrell all the while, because though these aren’t _his_ memories, they’re now his to share:

A handshake in an office; a confrontation on Coney Island; an arcade; a hack; a cabin; a basement; the woods. All these memories flicker by in an instant when he looks at this man, one that part of him doesn’t quite loathe and another part of him…

Elliot looks at Mr. Robot, and Robot smiles at him before looking at Tyrell.

Another part of him _loves_.

Elliot finally glances at Tyrell and smiles, tentative. “Hi.”

Tyrell smiles right back, and suddenly Elliot can see what Robot sees in him. “Hi.”

And maybe, maybe this will lead nowhere. Maybe they’ll never see each other again.

Elliot knows that Mr. Robot will let him, ultimately, decide what happens, where they go from here.

But in this moment, here, with all of them lost… anything can happen.

So for now—for always—Elliot says, “Let’s start at the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read this fic! I went back and forth for a long time on how to end it so I'm happy to provide a happy ending at long last. I might be writing more Tyrobot content in the future -- we'll see what happens. Thanks again to you all!


End file.
